The Worst Possible Time
by GlamFolk
Summary: Before leaving, Sherlock did Molly a favor. But now he's back, as is Moriarty, and has to deal with what he thought he left behind, and the new emotions that come with it. May change rating later. Pregnant!Molly and eventual Daddy!Lock.
1. Chapter 1

Molly had an awful habit of biting her finger nails.

She had always been nervous, tripping over words when it mattered most and never really exceling at social situations. In this regard, being a pathologist suited her – her patients were always quiet, never tried to make her navigate the mine field that is small talk, and didn't complain when she cut into their chest cavity to weigh their hearts.

The only problem was the latex taste the gloves would leave on her nails. It still didn't deter her.

Particularly, it didn't deter her today, as she sat at her desk, scanning over a blood report, mere moments after the bright, blazing words "MISS ME" came flashing across the small screen that they kept in the break room. While other Bart's employees had run to check it out, Molly made a quick exit back to her office, locked her door, and had been sitting in her office chair for the past fifteen minutes.

Suddenly, she was aware of how dangerous the world was.

He would know she had helped him fake his death, and he would come after her.

She was scared. She was shaking.

And according to the lab report she had just gotten back, she was pregnant.

She bit her nail and tasted blood.

The commute home was awful. The Tube had been shut down for fear of a spontaneous attack and all the cabs were too paranoid to pull over for anyone, even mousy 34-year-old women who were wearing pink sweaters with cherries on them. The whole city seemed to be pulling its hair out and running around like mad, and all Molly wanted to do was go home and sleep.

The walk from the hospital was about two miles, and she could see rain clouds forming overhead. With a huff she began walking briskly to her flat, mindful not to be to quick.

Of course time would be working against her on this.

Nothing was ever easy when it came to her and Sherlock Holmes.

It hadn't _meant_ to be anything. Not really.

He had seemed odd when he stopped by to say goodbye before Christmas, acting like he would never see her again. She just assumed it was Sherlock being Sherlock, and hadn't thought anything of it. It was particularly embarrassing when he walked in on her, crying over some paper work like a child.

"What's wrong?" he asked, standing over her.

She quickly wiped her eyes and ran her fingers down her cheeks.

"It's nothing,"

"It's not nothing, you've been reading over reports from a fertility clinic. You've been crying for the past 15 minutes. Have you been informed that you're unable to conceive? I'd imagine that's good news now that you're single again," he immediately regretted saying everything the moment she looked up at him.

"For once, could you refrain from being such an enormous prick?" she choked out. She stood up and slammed the file shut.

He was quiet for a moment, and then turned to face her as she walked over to grab tissues from her bookshelf.

"I'm…sorry, Molly."

"No, I'm sorry." she said, blowing her nose out. "It's just…" she looked up, trying to keep her tears in. "Tom and I went by the fertility clinic when we still thought we were getting married. My mum had had issues conceiving me, so we wanted to make sure we could have children, or get started on the adoption process," she threw the tissue into the garbage and stared at the ground. "I just got my results back, not that it matters any more. It says I realistically have two years left of reproductive health." She took in a deep breath. "I've always wanted to be a mum, and now my chances are looking pretty bleak," she laughed in spite of herself, and straightened up.

"Sorry, you didn't come here to hear me complain," she looked up at him and tried the best to smile. "What did you need?"

Sherlock's face was impossible to read, like his brain was buffering. The air was stiff, and Molly had worried she had shared to much, and was about to apologize before he asked:

"What do you need?"

"Sorry, what?" she smiled. She must have missed something, like always.

"What do you need?"

What was he-

Oh.

She sat cross-legged on her couch, sipping water. She was done for tea for nine months. Coffee, too. She wondered how long it would take for anyone to notice she was showing, who she should tell first.

She didn't have any family left, besides her cousin in Canada who last she checked have just gotten married for the third time and was moving to Alaska. John and Mary, maybe, but she wasn't ready to explain what had happened, not yet. Now that Sherlock was running around in Eastern Europe somewhere, he was obviously out of the question. And she certainly wasn't going to tell the group of friends that had introduced her to Tom yet-

Her phone buzzed, causing her to jump, almost dropping her water. She reached out and grabbed it, opening up a new text.

SUPPOSE YOU'VE HEARD THE NEWS. AM BACK IN ENGLAND. ARE YOU SOMEWHERE SAFE? –SH

Her fingers flew onto the keys.

YES. IN MY FLAT. DO YOU THINK HE KNOWS I HELPED YOU? –MH

Seconds later she got a response.

HE'D BE A FOOL NOT TOO. TAKE A CAB TO BAKER STREET. –SH

Molly bit her nail again. She looked at Toby, staring out the window with his big green eyes. She wished they could switch places right now; her sit on the window ledge and watch the world fall apart and he could go to Baker Street and tell the world's most brilliant man that he was going to be a father.

Reluctantly, she pulled her coat off the rack and went out the door.

She had never seen Sherlock's apartment so alive. The minute she got out of the cab she was ushered into the flat by two men she assumed worked for Mycroft. They hustled her up the stairs and immediately began patting her down, being much more rough that necessary.

"Be careful, she's a friend, not one of your call girls," Sherlock appeared in front of her, pulling the man off of her.

"Excuse me?" the man said.

"Haven't checked your phone since we've left the airport, obviously not making sure your wife or girlfriend is fine. Well thumbed card with a Carmike Motel's phone number, faint trace of body glitter on your neck and," he leaned in and sniffed. "cheap body spray from Boots still lingering on your skin. Come sit down, Molly."

Molly passed the dumbstruck henchman and was seated on the couch next to Mary as John paced in front of them. Mycroft stood by the mantle, with Lestrade peppering Sherlock with questions.

"Thought you said he blew a hole in his head, how the hell is he still alive?"

"I thought I did see him blow a hole in his head, just like you thought you saw my corpse. Moriarty is smart, he easily could have tricked me the way I tricked everyone in this room," he stole a glance at Molly. "Well, not everyone," he turned back "Besides, it could be one of his apprentices taking over his criminal ring and using his face as a front to cause mass terror."

"So what do we do? Wait for…Crazy jr. to rear his head?" John balked.

"Obviously not," Sherlock quipped, sitting down in his chair.

"Well what _are_ we going to do, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. "My phone has been blowing up for the past two hours asking me for orders!"

"Can everyone please shut up? If you'll remember I've only just returned from a ten minute exile!"

"What we can do," Mycroft spoke up. "Is make sure security get the appropriate boost,"

"Yes, especially for these three," Sherlock spoke up, lifting his head from his hands.

"Not to be rude to Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said. "But why do you feel she is at as great of a risk as the Watsons?"

"Because," Sherlock breathed.

_Oh god, he knows. Of course he knows, he can tell what I had for breakfast two days_ _ago by how I'm wearing my hair-_

"if you forget, she helped me fake my death. Moriarty isn't used to being outsmarted, and doesn't like making mistakes. He'll try to correct himself, and make her pay for helping me."

Molly breathed out. At least he hadn't told everyone.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "I'll see what I can do about adding extra security to her flat. In the mean time, I think it'd be best to take the Watsons to _their _new flat." Mycroft gave his hand to Mary, who gave Molly's hand a quick squeeze before getting up and waddling out. John looked back to Sherlock.

"You should receive a new phone, which only Mycroft and I will have the number." Sherlock assured him. "I'll be in touch,"

John nodded. "Let me know as soon as you hear anything,"

Sherlock nodded, and watched and John left the flat.

"I best be heading back to the station, figure this bloody mess out," Lestrade groaned.

"Careful on the streets, Gavin," Sherlock called.

"_GREG."_

Sherlock looked down to make sure the door closed, before turning back to Molly.

"So-"

"I'm pregnant." She blurted out.

Sherlock paused, considering her.

"Yes, I-"

"I wanted to say it before you got to. It may be the only time I'm able to break the news to the…" she waved in his direction. "and I wanted to say it out loud first."

He pursed his lips.

"Well," he said, walking towards the window. "Things certainly are more complicated now,"

Molly's nails flew to her lips.

"What are we going to do?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's note: Wow! I never thought anyone would ****actually read this. Thank you guys so much! I'm in a mood to write, so I cranked out another chapter. Y'all are awesome!**

Lying on her back without her pants on, staring at the ceiling of her flat as her upstairs neighbors crashed around, Molly Hooper realized she had never felt as unsexy as she did now. Legs spread with a pillow underneath her bum, she inserted the small tube of sperm into herself, and pressed the applicator down. She then relaxed her body, and started the timer.

In an attempt to make it somewhat intimate, she had lit some candles on her night stand, the ones the staff at Bart's had given her when she announced her engagement. But now, on a Tuesday evening with another man's sperm making it's way towards her cervix, she felt this may have been a tad inappropriate.

Toby mewed from outside the door, and from her position at the edge of her bed she could see his tiny white paw batting under the frame. She had closed the door to keep him out – honestly, it was sad enough that she was impregnating herself with an unobtainable man's sperm, she didn't need her cat to watch her do it.

Molly was only slightly sad that her child would not be conceived 'the old fashioned way', but the more she thought about it, it made sense – Sherlock wasn't love, he was science, pure cold facts. And what was more scientific and cold than avoiding the feelings of sex and using chemistry and math to create life? Molly tried consoling herself that it was strangely romantic that her child be made this way, like their final lab experiment together.

She dozed off for a while, only to wake up to her alarm sounded off thirty minutes later. Toby had stopped crying, but she could still see his shadow from under the door. She removed the tube from her and threw it in the trash, carefully hoisting her knickers up, praying too much wouldn't seep out. She washed her hands and unlocked the door to her bedroom, Toby immediately rubbing against her legs. On the way to the kitchen, she picked up her phone and sent a quick text. Short, cold, and unfeeling; the theme of her evening.

IT'S DONE. –MH

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Two hours later and he still hadn't said anything about it. To be fair his phone kept blowing up every five minutes, and she very well couldn't talk about it in front of the men and women who kept coming up to speak with him. Three in the past hour had come up claiming to be Moriarty's apprentice, but he had seen right through them: Uni student, reporter, and a desperate for fame, out of work actor. She had moved to leave some time around 5:30, but he had gestured for her to stay. So she stayed, sitting in John's old chair, unconsciously keeping her palms on her stomach.

When 6:30 rolled around, her stomach started to growl. The stream of people had died down, and Sherlock had just seen the last reporter out when he bounded back up the steps.

"Hungry?"

She nodded, and got up to move to the kitchen.

"Wouldn't go in there," he said, pulling out his cell phone.

"What?"

He looked up.

"Experiments. Chemicals. Not good for a developing fetus,"

"Right," she said, and went to sit back down in the chair.

"I'll call for take out." He said, and dialed up an Itlaian place. After finishing his order he came and sat in front of her, sitting cross legged in his chair and looking down at her stomach.

"You were eager," he said after a pause. She looked up and scrunched her face.

"Sorry," he said. He looked at the floor and then back up. "Naturally we need to keep this secret as long as we can. You were already in a considerable amount of danger before, but being pregnant, especially with the child's parentage, will put both of you at a greater risk,"

Molly nodded, and ran her fingers through her hair.

"We can't tell anyone it's yours," she said, so he wouldn't have to.

His voice softened.

"It's not because I'm _ashamed,_" he assured her.

"Safety," she said, turning back to make eye contact. "I understand."

"Of course I'm certain you won't want anyone thinking it's Tim's either,"

"Who?"

"Tim, your ex-fiancé."

"Tom."

"What?"

"His name with Tom. You know that,"

Sherlock waved a hand. "Whatever his name is, in any matter we need to solidify a story for you,"

"Sperm donor is fine." Molly said. After all, it was true, and she didn't have anyone to worry about scandalizing. 34 year old orphan whose closest friends included a PTSD riddled doctor, an ex assassin, and a neuro-non-typical detective who kept toes in his freezer had seen much worse than a near middle age woman taking family planning into her own hands.

"Right," Sherlock said. He bounced up out of his chair. "Well, glad that's settled," he started for the kitchen when Molly turned around.

"Sherlock," he turned to her, eyebrows raised and ready to receive a question. Although the timing was inappropriate, Molly hoped their child got his eyes. "When it's born," she tried to summon up the words. "Do you want to…see it?"

He considered this for a moment.

"See it?"

"You know…be a part of it's life?"

The air suddenly seemed more dense to Molly, as if the room had felt the tension and begun awkwardly sweating.

Sherlock chose his words carefully.

"It was my understanding that you were going to raise this child alone, Molly. As far as seeing him on holidays and occasionally saying hello, yes, that's fine, but if you're asking me if I want to be a father, then the answer is no. I thought that was the agreement."

Molly felt her throat tighten. _Stupid, stupid girl. _

"It was," she said, quickly turning around to wipe a tear from her cheek. "I was just making sure,"

"I assume the child will carry your last name and be adequately taken care of by your salary at Bart's. All I will share with him will be some unimportant genetics." Satisfied with himself, he began to turn to the kitchen when the bell rang.

"Ah! That'll be dinner,"

Molly hopped up out of the chair. Her legs were shaking, and to her extreme disappointment in herself, she was about to start crying. She picked up her bag quickly and edged past Sherlock.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I forgot to feed Toby," she called back, swinging the door open and forcing herself past the delivery boy a little more aggressively that she supposed she should have.

"At least let me call you a cab, it's not safe!" Sherlock called after her, but she pretended not to hear. The snow was coming down finally, and she walked into the white storm gladly.

::::::::::::

_Stupid, stupid girl_ she thought, climbing out of the cab in front of her flat. She fished the keys from her purse before starting up the steps.

Of course he wanted nothing to do with the baby. That was the entire plan. Some part of him knew that this was his last gift to her, that he wouldn't be returning to England, so of course he never expected he would be involved. She just thought…maybe…it was real now. Not some liquid at the bottom of a Bart's cup after an awkward wait outside of the single bathroom, or a nameless egg on a fertility report; it was a small thing growing inside of her, a tiny cluster of cells with two different sets of genes fitting themselves nicely together to create one, perfect little baby. Molly felt herself begin to cry again.

"Stop it, you big baby," she cursed herself, and began up the steps.

She would be fine. She would have her baby, give it her last name, and be a strong modern mother. One who stayed up nights helping with homework and made Macaroni dinners and asked her child's permission before going on dates. She would be a wonderful single mother, with a support system of lovely friends, even if it did include the child's secret father.

If she had a daughter, she prayed she wouldn't inherit her mother's type in men.

Yes, she could raise this baby by herself. She thought with the turn of her key. She would be a great mother. She didn't need Sherlock Holmes.

With a smile on her face and new confidence teeming through her, Molly flipped on the light, and looked down at the floor.

There lie Toby, his little body torn from the inside out. His little eyes still open, and his mouth stuck in a permanent scream. Surrounded by a puddle of blood with a trail leading across the room, her eyes followed the crimson to a message on her living room wall.

There, written in her poor, innocent cat's blood:

MISS ME?


	3. Chapter 3

She hadn't thought she had screamed as loud as the neighbors told the police she had, but sitting in the back of the ambulance, waiting for the paramedic to get back to her, she agreed it was probably possible.

Naturally, he was the first one to get there.

He found her outside, clutching a kitchen knife and watching the door intently. How he knew what had happened was beyond her. She had called the police first, and then immediately run outside. However, when he got there, she didn't question it.

"Molly," he said. She didn't respond. Her eyes were kept on the door, her heart fluttering in her chest. Adrenaline had set in and she had no time for distractions.

He reached for the knife but she jerked away.

"Molly," he said, softer this time. The wail of sirens echoed from down the street, and she allowed herself to turn and watch them race down her street. Sherlock took the opportunity to slip the kitchen knife from her hand and pocket it.

Molly turned around, her face falling.

"Sherlock," she whimpered. "They killed my cat."

:::::::

She watched him as he exited her flat. His tall, slim frame stood in stark contrast to the out of shape, short bodies of the police men running in with cameras and kits to dust for prints. They wouldn't find any, she was sure of it. She watched him as he sauntered over to her, his hands in his pockets, and his face stoic as ever.

"I see they've given you the customary shock blanket," he nodded at the bright orange cloth draped around her shoulders. She nodded and pulled the blanket closer around her shoulders. Sherlock sighed and sat down next to her, and then reluctantly, drew his arm around her.

Lestrade was next to exit the flat, and lit a cigarette. He inhaled deeply, and then looked over to the ambulance. His shoulders fell, and he began towards them, stopping in front of them and taking another drag.

"Molly," he said. "How are you holding up?"

"How the hell do you think she's holding up?" Sherlock bit back. "A mad man's just been in her house and killed her pet. I thought you were supposed to have beefed up security?"

"It's been six hours since this thing began, Sherlock," Lestrade groaned. "I haven't had time to return my ex-wife's phone calls, let alone set up new patrols and security measures. Why don't you call your brother?" he took a drag off his cigarette.

"Your ex wife hasn't called you. And will you put that out?" Sherlock gestured to the cigarette.

"Are you serious?" too shocked to ask how he knew about the ex wife lie, he gestured to his cigarette "Last week you practically tackled me to get a whiff of one of these, and now you want me to put it out?"

"It's not for _me,_" his voice was acidic. "Stress causes headaches, and I'm sure the lingering smell of your cigarette isn't helping Molly's head,"

Lestrade dropped the cigarette under his boot. "Sorry about that, Molly."

"It's fine," she said, clutching the blanket around her. "Do you know how he got in?"

"Broken window in your bedroom," Sherlock interjected before Lestrade could answer. "Most likely crawled through looking to find you, and found the cat instead."

Molly dropped her head to her hands. "Oh god," she breathed. It was too much. This morning she was happily running tests on her blood and now she had just narrowly escaped murder.

Sherlock quickly gestured for Lestrade to exit, and bent down to Molly's ear.

"I know this is hard, but stress has been known to cause certain complications with early pregnancies. Please don't worry about what could have happened. I promise-"

"There we are! Sorry about the wait, got caught up helping the dusting team. Alright, love," the American paramedic dropped to Molly's height, looking her in the eye. "How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Light headedness?"

Molly shook her head quickly. The paramedic smiled. "Well that's good. Any heart conditions I should know about?"

Molly shook her head again, taking in a deep breath. The paramedic reached for her arm.

"Any other medical conditions?"

Although she would never admit it, especially not to Sherlock, Molly had always dreamed of the day she would get to tell people she was pregnant. When she was younger she imagined she would first tell her husband, then her father, as her mother had already passed, and then her friends. The next nine months would be full of telling acquaintances and strangers the happy news.

Never in her wildest dreams did Molly ever think that the second person she would get to tell would be the paramedic checking for her vital signs, in thirty degree weather, as the police investigated her cat's murder in her house.

"Pregnant," she said. The paramedic made eye contact again. "five weeks."

The paramedic gave a toothy grin.

"Well congratulations, Momma!" she looked to Sherlock. "Daddy?"

"Oh, I-" Molly began, before Sherlock cut her off.

"Sperm donor." Sherlock curtly answered. He nodded towards Molly. "Just here taking care of a friend,"

"Oh," the paramedic's voice was noticeably less excited, but she smiled regardless when she turned back to Molly. "Well, congratulations anyway. I've got three boys at home. Handful. Makes me wish I had never left New Mexico for their father sometimes," she started to take Molly's blood pressure. She had just finished when Mycroft's sleek black car came gliding up. Sherlock stood abruptly.

Mycroft made eye contact with his brother immediately, and made a B line towards him. They met in the middle, about three feet away from the ambulance.

"I leave things be for three hours and hell breaks loose," the elder Holmes sighed.

"Oh, please don't be dramatic, Mycroft." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Molly's phone buzzed from under her jacket. She fished it out of her pocket and brought it to her face.

MOLLY. IT'S MARY. STOLE JOHN'S SECRET PHONE. HE JUST TOLD ME WHAT HAPPENED. ARE YOU ALRIGHT? – MW

Moly looked up at Sherlock, who was having a low volume yet animated conversation with his brother.

I'M FINE, THANKS. ARE YOU AND JOHN OKAY? – MH

WE'RE SETTLED INTO OUR HIDEY HOLE. CAN'T DISCLOSE. PROBABLY WILL FIND YOU A HOLE TO CRAWL INTO TOO, NOW. –MW

SORRY. THAT SOUNDED PRETTY BLEAK. BLAME IT ON THE HORMONES. PREGNANCY IS AWAFUL, AVOID IT AT ALL COSTS – MW

Molly sighed and closed her phone. When she looked back up, the Holmes brothers were standing in front of her.

"Dr. Hooper," Mycroft breathed. "How are you feeling?"

"Why is everyone asking her that?" Sherlock interjected. "She's got a shock blanket on, of course she's not feeling well,"

Molly ignored him and turned her attention to Mycroft.

"I'm fine, thank you," she said. "Just a little shook up."

"Well that is certainly understandable," Mycroft straightened up, and turned to his brother. "I had hoped we would have more time to relocate you, but considering certain events, I see that we'll have to move ahead,"

Molly's face fell. While it would be insane to argue to stay at her flat, she hadn't fully comprehended that it wouldn't be safe to stay there any longer. She turned to look at her building.

"We hadn't planned on having to house anyone else besides the Watsons, so our resources are much more limited in this regard," Molly turned her attention back. "At the moment we only have one place to offer your for safe keeping,"

"Where?" Sherlock spat out.

Mycroft's face flickered for only a moment, but Molly knew what it meant. It meant that he wasn't going to like his answer.

"Hong Kong," Mycroft answered.

"Hong Kong?! Are you mad?"

"It is the only place-"

"Moriarty has an entire Chinese criminal ring at his disposal. There's a bloody revolution going on-"

"Well what do you want me to do, Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped. "I can't very well inconvenience the entire government to hide away all of your _friends_." He said the word 'friends' like it meant 'porn collection'.

"Hong Kong is not suitable. Find another place,"

"There _is _no other place-"

"_Find one,_"

"Excuse me," Molly interjected, the two men turning towards her. "Do I get a say in this?"

"Dr. Hooper," Mycroft said, in a measured, even tone. "I wish the circumstances were different,"

"The _make _them different. You have the entire government in your _smart phone._ If you need more space for the Maps feature, perhaps delete one of those weight loss apps and find Dr. Hooper a place to live that is appropriate for her condition-"

"_What_ condition?!"

Sherlock paused, almost dumbstruck. Molly froze.

"Sherlock…"she breathed.

"You don't know?" Sherlock baited, with a hint of a smile.

"Know-" Mycroft looked to Molly, then to her midsection. Almost instantly, he turned back to Sherlock.

"Oh what did you _do?!"_

"I thought you'd be tickled," Sherlock said. "After all that 'what do you know about sex' business I thought procreation would be welcome proof-"

"Stop." Mycroft put his hand up. He took a deep breath in and then looked back at his brother. "No one must know."

"Naturally."

"That being said, this is now your problem."

"_Excuse me?"_

"Like you said, Hong Kong is not a suitable location for Dr. Hooper. Now with you personal," he looked down at Molly, who was starting to feel like a piece of meat. "_investment_ in the doctor, you'll find a place for her. Perhaps in John's old room?" Mycroft pulled out his phone.

"Are you mad? If her condition is found out, the target on her back will only get bigger. Attacking Baker Street will be less of a possibility and more of a guarantee if it meant killing two birds with one stone,"

"More like covering all of our bases," Mycroft flipped put his phone back in his pocket. "The security at your flat will now cover both you and Dr. Hooper, saving us the resources to go after the main concern. I've texted Mrs. Hudson, and she-" his phone beeped "has accepted. I would move tonight, before the reporters get wind of this." He turned to go back to his car, but then thought of something else to say.

"Besides," Mycroft leaned into Sherlock. "Mother would kill me if I sent her long awaited grandchild out of the country."

:::::::::

For the second time that day, Molly found herself trudging up the stairs of 221 Baker Street. Sherlock had volunteered to carry her bags, noticeably lighter now that she no longer needed to bring a cat carrier. Sherlock bumped the door to Johns old room open, and placed Molly's things on the floor. Molly followed in, sweeping the room.

It was big enough; the bed was a full and was already made up, thanks to Mrs. Hudson. There wasn't a window, which was probably for the best. Sherlock flipped on the lamp that stood atop the dresser, and turned to look at her.

"I'll be up early in the morning. I'll try to clean the kitchen up tonight so you can make breakfast in the morning. The bathroom is downstairs, towels should be stocked," he sighed, and looked around the room.

"Sherlock," Molly said, and he turned to her, with raised eyebrows. "Why did you tell Mycroft?"

"I was surprised he didn't already know. He's the 'smart one', after all." Sherlock rolled his eyes. When Molly didn't smile back, he coughed and looked back at her. "Security, especially if it concerns that of his unborn niece or nephew, will be much tighter now, keeping both of you safe. It doesn't matter that I won't be involved in the child's life, he'll want to make sure it's safe. As do I." He added the last part quickly, as if Molly didn't' already believe he cared about the baby's well being. "I also couldn't resist alluding to sex. Forgive me. I do love watching him squirm."

Molly nodded, and looked to the bed. It looked lumpy. She imagined that John had taken his good mattress when he had moved out, and this was the one that was left over from an earlier tenant. She reminded herself that she would have to see about getting her mattress the next day.

"You'll be safe here, Molly," Sherlock said. She turned back up to him, and saw his face. It looked…sweet. Like the day they had solved crimes together, all those months ago. "I promise."

Molly nodded, and smiled back at him. "Thank you," she said, wiped her eyes. "I think, I think I'll lay down now."

"Of course," Sherlock smiled down at her. He made to move towards the door, but paused and leaned down to place a quick kiss on Molly's cheek.

"I'm sorry about Toby,"

"Thank you," Molly said. Another tear slipped out. He reached up and wiped it away before walking to the door. He paused before closing it.

"Goodnight, Molly Hooper."


	4. Chapter 4

He tried cleaning it. He really did.

First he had to move the trey of tobacco ash he had been collecting in piles from the top of the refrigerator, lest it topple over and fly into the air. Next he moved the collection of human cartilage from the sink where he had been testing their resistance to various acids.

Oh, he had to move the acids, as well, didn't he?

He looked at his watch. It was 6 am, and he had promised he would meet up with John at 7 am to get coffee. He looked across the counter, where a Bunsen burner was still up, and various spills of powder that may or may not have been arsenic. He huffed and slid the doors to the kitchen shut.

MOLLY. I DON'T EXPECT YOU TO READ THIS BEFORE 7. AVOID KITCHEN. IF YOU NEED TO USE ONE, MRS. HUDSON WILL OBLIDGE. –SH.

With that, he picked his coat off the hanger and hurried down the stairs.

::::::::

"How's Mary?" Sherlock asked. He had met up with John at the hospital before his shift began, and was stuck drinking the brown water they called coffee. John looked like he hadn't slept all night, with his eyes sunken and his hair disheveled.

"Fine. Not going into labor any time soon, thank god."

Sherlock nodded. He had only been around Mary a handful a times since she had grown to her size, and often thought how illogical it seemed that a woman of her age had decided to conceive. The studies had shown the effects of women in their late 30's and early 40's carrying babies to term and the risks, at least to him, often out weighed-

"How's Molly?" John asked, abruptly. Sherlock snapped up.

"What?"

"Molly. Hooper. The woman who narrowly escaped murder last night?"

"Oh, right. I don't know."

John's eyes went wide.

"What do you mean you _don't know?_"

"I mean she hasn't returned my text," Sherlock held up his phone, as if it was evidence. "You don't honestly think that I wouldn't have checked in on her?"

John made a face before he went to drink his coffee.

"She seemed moody last night. Not very talkative. Thought she would have wanted to discuss the events but she was very tight lipped after I had met her at her flat,"

John eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock," he said. "her house was broken into; her _cat_ was murdered,"

Sherlock's face contorted. "It was a _cat,_ John. They're all over London. If she wants to see one, she can look outside. Some people's attachment to their pets is ludicrous,"

"Alright," John straightened up. "answer me this though, how did you feel after Red Beard died?"

Sherlock's face went blank.

::::::::::::

When Molly woke up, her back was screaming at her.

The mattress she had been forced to sleep on was just as lumpy as it had looked the night before. There was a significant slope from the head to the feet, and she could see where some springs had come loose. She sighed and reached for her phone, and gasped when she saw the time.

In neat, Sans Serif script, the time 3:49 beamed back at her.

She rarely slept this late, not since med school. Quickly, she threw the covers off, instantly steadying herself on the dresser. The bed must have ruined her back more than she thought.

After flipping the lamp on, she turned back to her bed and saw her phone buzz. Brushing her hair out of her face, she grabbed it off the hospital green duvet.

MOLLY. I DON'T EXPECT YOU TO READ THIS BEFORE 7. AVOID KITCHEN. IF YOU NEED TO USE ONE, MRS. HUDSON WILL OBLIDGE. –SH.

HOW ARE YOU, LAMB? – MW

MOLLY. DIDN'T FIND ANY PRINTS AT FLAT. WHEREVER YOU ARE, IF YOU NEED TO GET YOUR THINGS, LET US KNOW, WE CAN SEND AN ESCORT. – GL

ARE THEY LETTING YOU OUT? THEY'RE NOT LETTING ME LEAVE THIS PLACE. THESE BLOODY GOVERNMENT TYPES. – MW

MOLLY. YOUR SHIFTS FOR THE NEXT THREE DAYS HAVE BEEN COVERED. WE CAN CATCH UP ON TUESDAY. – MIKE

ARE YOU UP YET? – SH

MYCROFT IS COMING BY TONIGHT. WANTS TO DISCUSS SOMETHING OR OTHER. – SH

SPOKE WITH JOHN TODAY. HAVEN'T MADE MUCH HEADWAY WITH MORIARTY. MEETING WITH SOME GOVERNMENT OFFICIALS TOMORROW. –SH

WHAT KIND OF CAT WAS TOBY? – SH

PLEASE DO NOT MOVE THE TOES OFF OF THE MANTLE PLACE – SH

Suddenly, Molly felt something stir in her stomach.

She pulled up the calendar app on her phone and counted back the little pink line that drew back to when she had inseminated herself. Six weeks to the day.

Her stomach flipped again.

"Oh bloody hell," she murmured, and started for the door. At an almost super human speed she carried herself down the stairs, practically jumping three at a time, before sliding against the wood and into the living room. She quickly fixed her course and ran into the bathroom, dropped to her knees, and vomited the entire contents of her stomach up.

She pulled back only a moment to look around. The bathroom was far from clean, as she imagined would be the case-boxers on the floor, a disaster area of a sink, and she didn't even want to investigate the strange smell seeping from behind the shower curtain. In fact, the thought of looking at it made her-

Turning back to the vomit again, she thanked God that he wasn't experimenting on urban algae populations in toilets.

She heard the door open a click, and managed to pull her hair away from her face. She looked a mess. She had slept in a light blue cotton nightie that barely came to her knees, and hadn't washed her face since last night. She was sure her hair was a mess, and to top it all off, she was in between vomiting bouts.

"Molly?" she heard him call from the other room. Reluctantly, she answered.

"In here," she coughed before repositioning herself. "Don't come in,"

He of course didn't listen to her, and she heard his footsteps echo in the hallway before abruptly stopping.

"Already sick?"

She nodded, not breaking eye contact with the white porcelain bowl.

"How many weeks?"

"Six, today." She said. She inhaled deeply, and reached up to flush. "Think it's finished. Sorry about all that," she stood up and exhaled, before turning around.

There, standing in the doorway, was the most stoic, tall, logical man she had ever met, holding the fluffiest, white, adorable kitten she had ever seen in her life.

She looked at the kitten, then back at Sherlock, her mouth only slightly agape.

"Are you going to brush your teeth?" he asked.

"Sherlock…what is that?"

He looked slightly uncomfortable, shifting his weight before answering.

"I spoke to John today, about recent events," he said, looking down at the kitten. "We couldn't discuss the Moriarty case, of course, or your condition. But we talked about last night," he paused a moment, before extending his arms and holding the kitten out to her. She took it. "I don't understand the need to keep a pet. They're loud, they get into your things easily and make a mess, and of course they inevitably will die, leaving you sad and thirteen years older," he stopped himself before digging the hole any deeper. "But…I also had a pet. Crushed me when he died. Wouldn't come out of my room for days. I thought maybe if I had had a distraction, or…"

Molly let out a little cry, and hugged the kitten's soft fur to her face.

"Sorry, did I do something wrong?"

"No," Molly whimpered. "This is….the sweetest thing someone's ever gotten me," she nuzzled her face into the kittens fur a little more, giggling when it let out a tiny 'mew'. "I'm sorry," Molly wiped her face. She looked back up at him and smiled. "Thank you, thank you," without thinking she went in to hug him, pressing her face into his chest. He hesitated for only a moment, and then let his hand fall onto her back, patting lightly.

She pulled away in time and looked at the kitten.

"Oh, he's so lovely," she sniffed and then looked back at Sherlock. "But, you know that pregnant women can't clean litter boxes?"

Sherlock's slight smile fell. "What?"

"The chemicals. They can cause birth defects,"

"But…Toby…"

"I had a cat door."

Sherlock went silent. Molly held the kitten a little tighter, for fear he may grab at him and correct his mistake.

"Well," Molly said. "I best go get dressed before your brother arrives. Brush my teeth and all that," she quickly moved past Sherlock, talking to her new little friend all her way up the stairs. She didn't look back in time to see his eyes follow her up the stairs, with only the slightest smile on his lips.

::::::::

Molly was filling out some medical records from Bart's that she had had faxed over while her new kitten slept on her lap. She hadn't wanted to let her employers know about her condition like this, but as she was under security measure for the next three days, she couldn't very well waltz into the hospital and demand to speak to the administrator, not without half of London's highest paid security in her wake. Tranquilly, she hummed one of the songs Sherlock had played earlier as she filled in her expected due date.

Sherlock sat at his chair, aggressively clicking away at his laptop. It had been an entire day and nothing new had cropped up with the Moriarty case. His homeless network had nothing new to report to him, and Lestrade was more useless than usual. If he hadn't seen it written on Molly's flat wall, they entire 'Miss Me' episode could have very well been written up and a nationwide lapse into hallucination.

"Come on, think. Think you idiot," he mumbled to himself. Molly didn't look up, she had become used to it over the past three hours.

There was a knock at the door downstairs, and then a quick greeting from Mrs. Hudson that was cut off by what sounded like a herd of men scampering up the stairs. Molly turned her chair around, minding the kitten on her lap, just in time to see Mycroft and a few men in suits behind him.

"Hello, Dr. Hooper." he motioned to some more of the men coming up the stairs, carrying what looked like rather heavy items. "I took the liberty of having some of my employees pack up your things and bring them over, I hope you don't mind." He looked down into her lap. "What is that?"

"Oh," she looked down, almost forgetting the kitten. "Sherlock got him for me. Because of-"

"Is that safe? In your condition?" Mycroft cut her off.

"I wasn't aware that you had become a doula, Mycroft," Sherlock finally spoke up.

"And I wasn't aware you had required a heart. Tell me, will I be receiving a hamster this Christmas?"

"I assume you didn't just come over here to drop off Molly's things,"

"No," Mycroft said, turning back to Molly. "In addition to dropping off your mattress and some boxes of valuables, I've come to discuss the new security plan and install some monitors,"

"Install monitors?" Sherlock balked. Mycroft turned to him.

"Yes, monitors. You didn't just think we'd station someone outside all hours of the day and wait for something suspicious to happen, did you?"

Sherlock scowled and sat back down. Mycroft took John's chair.

"Dr. Hooper's flat will be commandeered as a base of operations. I don't expect Moriarty would be stupid enough to believe she is still living there, but in case he slips up, he may believe that she's been kept under constant surveillance. Speaking of," he turned to Molly. "Your work at Bart's is a problem. Given Moriarty's fascination with the place, it seems incredibly unsafe for you to continue daily employment there,"

"What?" Molly and Sherlock spoke up.

"I need a pathologist," Sherlock countered.

"And _I _need a job," Molly said. "I'm nine months away from being a mother and my savings in pathetic. I need to be able to make money,"

"Right now your job is not getting yourself killed," Mycroft said. "As it is, you've been put on a government payroll for assisting my brother."

"No," Molly spoke up. Both men turned to her, surprised.

"I am not going to accept the government's charity for sitting around all day and growing a baby. I worked day and night through uni for my degree and I _love _my job. I won't run away because some psychopath sent the city a bloody text message."

"Molly, you're being unreasonable," Sherlock began.

"No. I'm going to work. Have the royal guard escort me everyday if you need to, but I am not going to sit around here all day waiting for some arseholes in suits to come home and tell me which windows to avoid sitting next to!"

The room went quiet for a moment, and Molly realized she had said all of that out loud.

"…I'll see what I can do," Mycroft said. From behind him some men came in with a large box, marked 'PHOTOS'.

"No more room upstairs, boss." he put the box on the floor next to Molly, who jumped down and began rifling through them.

"Thank you for this," she said.

"Who do you plan on seeing for your OBGYN?" Mycroft asked.

Molly was caught off guard, and stopped looking through the photos.

"Sorry, what?"

"I think it would be best if I found one for you," Mycroft said. "Never know who you can trust, and I wouldn't want one of Moriarty's men finding a way to harm you. Plus the government has some of the best medical practitioners on hand, ready to answer my call."

Molly considered this for a moment, wondering if Mycroft was implying that her baby was going to be delivered by Princess Kate's gynecologist.

"I think that's best," she said with a smile. "Thank you,"

"Of course," he said, then turning to Sherlock. "We have some things we need to discuss,"

Molly went back to rifling through the photos, letting her kitten roam around the room as she watched the brothers from the corner of her eye make their way down the stairs.

:::::::

She was looking at a particularly horrid picture from her early teenage years when Sherlock bounded back up the stairs again.

"What did Mycroft say?" she asked, pushing the photo back in the box before he could see it.

"He's got a lead on Moriarty. Telecommunications was able to trace the location of the 'MISS ME' signal. We're going to investigate tomorrow. Nice braces," he said without looking up from his phone. Molly pushed the photo down farther in the box.

"How long will you be gone?"

"A few days, maybe a week. Mycroft will have someone watching the house constantly. He was annoyed by your insistence to work," he smirked at her. "I think you shocked him."

Molly shrugged and went back to rifling through the photos. Sherlock looked down at the kitten.

"Does it have a name?" he said, watching as the kitten pawed his shoe.

"Haven't thought of one yet," she bit her lip and watched the two of them. The kitten fell onto his back on top of Sherlock's shoe, looking up expectantly as the detective considered the furry ball. "Why don't you name him?"

Sherlock's head jerked up.

"Me?"

"Yeah I mean," Molly pushed herself up, after finally having found her photo. "you bought him. You should get to name him," she reached down and picked him up, handing him off to Sherlock. "Come on, then,"

Sherlock looked down at the kitten, and Molly watched as the gears in his head silently turn. She hoped she wasn't smiling to widely.

"Gandalf," he said quickly before turning to pick up his violin.

Molly giggled. "Gandalf?"

He turned back to her and smiled. "I was once a child, you know. Even I indulged in some frivolous things like fiction books," with that, he picked up his violin and started playing. Molly smiled and picked up Gandalf, going to sit on the couch.

::::::

Sherlock didn't know when Molly fell asleep. Probably in between the Bach and Mozart pieces, but none the less she was curled up on the couch with Gandalf looking up at her expectantly. In between her fingers was an old weathered photo, which upon closer inspection was that of her and her father, probably back in the early nineties. Molly was smiling her wide smile, her brown eyes scrunched up. The man next to her was obviously her father, with the same brown eyes and hair color, and had his arm wrapped around her shoulders. They appeared to be in front of one of the Smithsonian museums- the natural history one, Sherlock guessed-caught in the middle of a stream of visitors. He plucked it from in between her hands, not wanting it to get crumpled as she slept. Without thinking, he put it on the mantle piece before turning back to Gandalf, who was staring expectantly at him.

"What?" he asked.

The cat mewed before jumping off Molly's chest and scampering over to Sherlock's feet.

"No-stop. Stay with your Mother-" He tried to pick the kitten up, but he weaved in between his massive hands three times. Sherlock sighed before looking up at Molly, with her relaxed face and gentle rising and falling of her chest. He reached over her for the blanket, and carefully draped it over her sleeping figure. She turned inward, cuddling into it.

Gandalf mewed again.

"Don't look at me like that," Sherlock scoffed, and headed back to his room, trying to keep the cat from following him.

He tried from keeping Gandalf from sleeping on his bed. He really did.

**everyone's reviews are making my day!**

**Do you have any suggestions? I'm trying to write as in character as possible! Also, I hope you all like Gandalf. **


	5. Chapter 5

There was one thing Molly couldn't stand, and that was mess.

Clutter, yes, of course. She didn't believe in having a completely clean home, as she hadn't grown up in one and consequently linked a little mess to the feeling of being home. But the moment she stepped into the bathroom for the next day's war with the toilet, she made a decision that morning to call a cleaning service, Sherlock's precious balance be damned.

She almost felt guilty dialing the number, as she remembered how she had woken up that morning with a blanket draped over her. She never realized how comfortable the couch was until she had drifted off in the night to a melody that was half-familiar. It was a much better sleep than she had gotten the night before, and the natural day light of the windows had woken her up at a reasonable hour.

Sherlock had left of course, which left her free to invite three elderly Swiss women into Baker Street without any of his refusals or sarcastic comments to contend with. She thought she was being rather fair, though; she had told the maids in broken French that while the kitchen was to be cleaned, all objects, no matter how unsavory, were to be moved to the bathroom in the master bedroom. She had peered in that morning when she was looking for Gandalf, and figured that there was ample space for the chemical components of his experiments. She allowed them to leave the Bunsen burner on the counter, along with the body parts in the refrigerator. She showed them her badge for Bart's as explanation for their presence, rather than fall into a diatribe about the unsavory, and probably illegal, reasons her flat mate had a human arm in his freezer.

Mrs. Hudson loved it, of course. So much so that she agreed to clean out Gandalf's litter box until Sherlock returned. Molly thanked her profusely, and paid the maids a little extra to clean the dishes in her kitchen as a show of her gratitude. Gandalf followed the maids around for the most of the morning, before growing bored with their aggressive shooing and settled back onto Sherlock's bed, the exact place Molly had found him that morning. No matter, she thought. Maybe having the adoration of a kitten would warm him up a bit.

The Swiss women would not abide with leaving the bathroom in it's condition, experiment or not. Molly agreed to their angry bickering, and promised herself she would replace anything they women threw out. It was Sherlock's fault, she reasoned, that he hadn't cleaned it out previously. A pregnant woman needed a bathroom, and she wasn't going to jeopardize the health of her child by leaving whatever was growing in the bathtub to cultivate.

As soon as the women left, Molly finally felt she could breathe. While she could no longer make tea for herself, there was a sense of relief now knowing that if a guest popped by, she could be a good hostess. She lit a candle to rid the flat of it's chemical smell, and moved towards the mantle, sighting her picture next to Billy the skull.

She reached out instinctively, thinking she must have left it there the night before, but remembered that she had fallen asleep with it.

He must have put it up there.

Dropping her hand, she placed the candle on the opposite end of the mantle.

Maybe there was a part of him that did want to be involved in her little family, and even if there wasn't, she left it up there to remind him that it existed.

::::::

Three days in the Ukraine and nothing to show for it. He didn't know what he had expected. Sure, the atmosphere of the political revolution had given him a rush, and had for a moment thought about taking Mycroft up on his offer to be relocated to Eastern Europe if only so he could live in the middle of such delicious chaos, but then remembered the unfortunate conditions of his release, and reluctantly returned to England.

It had to be about 2 am when he unlocked the door to 221 B, and suddenly he was aware that something was different.

The smell.

It smelled…like wintergreens.

He vaulted up the stairs, long legs carrying him up three at a time, and burst into the living room.

Wrong, wrong, all wrong.

For one, the dirt samples he had left behind his chair had been vacuumed. The windows had been cleaned, absolutely ruining his study in dust accumulation and sunshine. He swiveled his head and with a sinking feeling of dread, he entered the kitchen.

No. No.

Where had it all gone?

"MOLLY!" he cried out. He ran towards the sink. Where was his arsenic pile? His precious algae? His fetal pig?

He began tearing at his hair. He looked on the top of his refrigerator and almost wept when she saw his treys had been removed.

"Good lord, Sherlock. It's 2 in the morning, what are you shouting about?!" Molly moaned as she walked into the kitchen. With an almost predatory intention, he ran up to her.

"Where is it? Where is it all?"

"What?"

"MY. EXPERIMENTS." He turned around, ripping off his scarf and examining the room.

"I-"

"You had it cleaned!" he exclaimed with an undeniable sense of pain.

"Yes-"

"By three immigrants over the age of fifty, two with families to support and one with a son who's doing very well for himself, it would seem,"

Molly didn't indulge him.

"Yes, I had it cleaned, it was a war zone-"

"Did you not think that it was a violation of your rights as a guest? That this may cross the line?"

Molly's mouth fell open.

"_Guest?_ If you forgot it's your sworn bloody enemy who broke into my house and tried to have me murdered!"

"Well I don't recall you signing a lease!" Sherlock snapped. He checked the cabinet for his decomposing lizard carcass. Gone.

"I'm not saying that these living conditions are optimal," Molly huffed, walking up to him. "but we're stuck this way until we figure out how to deal with Moriarty,"

"_We?_ I'm sorry, were you in the Ukraine with me? I thought you were here, playing house and growing a bastard,"

Molly reached out and slapped him. When he seemed to bounce back, she slapped him again, and then backed him into a corner.

"Listen right fucking here, Sherlock," she jabbed a finger to his face. "If you recall, I never _asked _you to help me grow my 'bastard', you offered it up. Secondly, three days ago you were reluctant to have me go back to work, I had to hound your brother not to hold me captive in a flat that revivals Chernobyl in terms of chemical spills. Third, I'm bloody _pregnant,_ you prat, with _your _child. I don't care that you want nothing to do with it, but at least show both it and me the respect we deserve and don't jeopardize our health by having us live in _your _mess!" She backed off, and breathed heavily, with Sherlock gazing down at her with what looked like both confusion and admiration.

"Your experiments are in your bathroom. Even the half eaten lizard. I had the women move my mini fridge from my flat into your room so you can store everything. Unlike some people in this house, I'm not completely inconsiderate. Now if you'll excuse me, my _bastard _needs me to get at least 8 hours of sleep so it can form correctly," with one less icy gaze, Molly Hooper turned with a swish of her long hair and trudged up the stairs. From his position in the kitchen, Sherlock could see Gandalf run from his room and up the stairs, clearly having chosen his side.

:::::::::

"Who thought it was a good idea to teach these things to shit in a box?" Sherlock thought as her sifted Gandalf's excrement out of the blue crystals. He quickly dumped the load into the trashcan, making a disgusted face in the process. As he stood up, he heard her make her way down the stairs.

He turned around to see her dressed for work, and with a look of awe on her face.

"Ah, you're up," he said, clapping his hands together. He kicked the litter box into the hallway.

"What is all of this?" Molly asked, gesturing towards the food on the counter.

"Pregnant women require a balanced diet to keep healthy. So for breakfast I have some bananas on top of cereal for a mix of protein and potassium, which will keep you energized and fight of pregnancy fatigue," he picked up a pitcher "Low fat milk, as your body absorbs twice as much calcium now that you're eating for two," he gestured to the stove "I've made eggs, for protein, as pregnant women sometimes acquire aversions to meat for the smell and knowledge that they're eating the cute little animals they will in 9 months be showing off to their children in picture books-"

"Sherlock," Molly interrupted.

Sherlock paused, before dropping his hands into his pocket.

"I was out of line, last night," he looked down at his feet. "Crude, cruel-forgive me," he looked back up. "I do care about your health, and I shouldn't have been selfish enough to put you in peril, more than I have, that is."

Molly considered him for a moment. In truth, she liked this power she had over him. For some reason, she could always make him apologize, and she had grown to love it.

"Pour me a glass of milk," she said, sitting down at the stool. With a slight smirk, he obliged.

"I forgot to tell you," Sherlock said. "You remember Bill Wiggins?"

Molly almost choked on her milk.

"Bill Wiggins? The heroin addict?"

"Turned sort-of student, yes," Sherlock scraped an egg onto the plate and placed it in front of her. "He'll be sleeping on the couch for the next week,"

"Why?"

He looked up at her, and gave a smile she didn't know how to interpret. Gandalf weaved between his legs.

"Case,"


	6. Chapter 6

**You guys make my days with your reviews! I can't believe I have over 70 followers! That's crazy! I hope you enjoy this!**

Although he was covered in blood, Bill Wiggins looked as if he recovering from his heroin addiction quite nicely.

Molly stepped over his body when she entered, and then turned to where Sherlock was hiding behind the sliding doors to the kitchen.

"The blood splatter on the wall isn't convincing enough to have been a gunshot wound," she said as she peeled off her coat. "Not to mention the placement of the body. He's turned to the side, and if it had been a self induced gun shot to the head, he wouldn't have fallen like that unless someone kicked him over,"

Sherlock growled from his hiding place. Molly continued.

"And while he's turned over," Molly bent her head down, careful not to bend from the waist. "the head wound on the back is just dreadfully inadequate,"

"That's because," Sherlock emerged. "in this scenario Moriarty shot a blank into his mouth and a device triggered the detonation of some sort of blood pack from the back, which led to a larger container of blood, concealed in his jacket, that would pump through into puddle."

"Wouldn't you have noticed that?" Molly asked. "A large bag of blood in his jacket?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock snapped. He looked down at Bill "And please _do _ get up," he said.

"I was in character," said Bill, his eyes opening widely.

"You were sleeping?"

"Is it because of the creases on my face?" Bill asked.

"It was because you were snoring. Molly? Hungry?"

Molly had since picked up Gandalf and given him a little nuzzle. The kitten had gotten bigger. "Yes, please."

Sherlock nodded before turning back towards the kitchen, with Bill hopping back onto the couch.

"You alright, Molly?" he asked, grabbing a rag off the end table.

"I'm fine, Bill. How are you today?"

"Same shit, differen' day," he tossed the 'bloody' (Molly assumed it some sort of cornstarch mixture) rag into the corner. "Better than living in the smack houses, though," He looked down at her bump.

"How far along are you, now, anyways?"

Molly's hand fell to her tiny swell. Sherlock had lied when he said Bill was going to be staying with them for a week. It had been nine weeks that the living room had turned into a small campsite. Luckily, Bill didn't have many possessions, and only required the couch and end table for his needs, but it was still massively inconvenient. Molly would come home every night from a long day of paper work, only to be greeted by a new 'Moriarty' corpse. The first week Sherlock spent all day locked inside his 'mind palace' (i.e., his room), leaving Bill and poor Gandalf wishing for his company. Bill made use of his time alone, however. To Molly (and eventually Sherlock's) great surprise, Bill was an accomplished artist. Molly came home one night at 5 am, absolutely knackered after a night shift of filling out paper work and getting up every thirty minutes (pregnant women were not supposed to sit for more than an hour, Sherlock had reminded her one night when she had just wanted to sit and binge watch Downton) and found him hunched over a sketch book. "Thought heroin would make me better," he muttered. They slipped into a routine that week. Molly would make food and Bill would clean, and they'd spend their in between time, lounging in the living room; Molly reading and Bill drawing. He had already drawn a rather prestigious looking picture of Gandalf, a few still lives of the crowded mantle, and rather flattering one of Molly sitting in Sherlock's chair. Her favorite by far, though, was the ink sketch of a baby Bill had given her only a few days ago when Sherlock was out picking up food. "It's my guess of what your baby might look like," he said, handing her a cardstock print. Molly sweetly thanked him, and as naturally as she could muster, went up to her room to promptly bawl her eyes out. While it was undeniable that the baby boy's big brown eyes were hers, along with his nose and lips, his cheekbones were high, and his hair had strong, telling black curls. Bill was the apt student Sherlock had promised.

"Sixteen weeks," Molly said, running her hands down her stomach in a V. She had only been to a few appointments with Mycroft's appointed physician. She was a kind Jamaican woman, with, thankfully, warm, soft hands. Her first visit had been only a week after living with Sherlock, and had taken three hours to shift between cars in secret and then sit in the waiting room. Dr. Dixon had been worth it, though. Her equipment was impeccable, and had access to some of the best technology. Even while lying on the exam table, with yet another person inside of her, Molly envied the pretty tools that the doctor had.

But tomorrow's appointment was special. The news of the Watsons' new baby girl had sparked the desire to know her baby's sex. She had been texting Mary endlessly since Charlotte's birth five weeks previous, asking almost too many questions, she was sure. She longed to go and visit Mary and the baby, but she had yet to receive clearance from Mycroft. Sherlock had been sweet enough to bring home a picture for her a few days ago, that had found it's place upon the mantle next to Billy and Molly's old picture. Hopefully, she thought, with no news of Moriarty's return, it would come out as being a big hoax; some boys playing a prank. Then things could go back to normal.

This wasn't likely, however. Even if it had been a hoax, someone had broken into her house and killed her cat, and Sherlock was unable to let the link between the two go.

"Speaking of," Molly took the soup bowl from Sherlock as he walked back into the room, trey ready for the three of them to eat at their make shift dining table/desk. "I'll know the sex tomorrow,"

Neither man really responded at first, before Bill asked:

"Thought of any names?"

_Yes. _

"No," Molly said, slurping her soup.

_If they're not going to be excited for me, then I'll save my breath._

"You're lying," Sherlock said, crumbling crackers into his soup. "You've been thinking of them since you got the blood work back."

Bill turned back to her, trying on his best deduction face.

"Is it because she's been wearing her hair up?"

_What?_

"Or the amount of books and photos she's been going through lately?"

"Mrs. Hudson found the list in one of her pockets," Sherlock shut him down. "Honestly, Molly, _Francis?_"

"I thought it could be nice," Molly felt suddenly small. Why did he get to criticize her choices in names? He made it very clear that it was going to be her baby and hers alone.

"Too old fashioned. Kids would make fun of him on the playground. He'd end up going by the name Frank, which you hate, from your aversion to calling our mail man that instead of 'Franklin'. Next," he slurped his soup.

"What's your next name?" Bill asked.

Molly went quiet for a minute, before bringing the soup spoon up to her mouth.

"Cadell," she said.

"Cadell?" Bill asked. "Like _cattle_? You're just asking for that poor little bloke to get arse kicked on the school yard. My mates and I used to beat up boys with his name, why would you pick something so st-"

"Shut up, Bill," Sherlock seethed. Bill turned to Sherlock, confused, and raised his hands.

"What? You were doing it. Just trying to help the lady out-"

"Cadell was my father's name," Molly said quickly, dabbing the napkin around her mouth. "He was Welsh. Moved her in 1976. Always wanted grandkids, but things didn't work out that way," she stood up. "I'm sorry, I'm not feeling well." She put her dish in the sink before going upstairs, Gandalf trailing behind her.

Bill looked at Sherlock.

"What?"

:::::::::::

Molly watched as Gandalf chased a bottle cap around on the floor. She didn't know where he had found it, but she was glad it was giving her some sort of distraction from the desire to cry her eyes out again. She couldn't think of her dad when she was pregnant, it only made the entire ordeal more painful. She wished he was here, sitting on the bed next to her so he could hold her head to his chest again and sing her one of those old Welsh songs he used to when she was baby. She missed him. She missed having one male presence in her life that wasn't cold and calculating but was warm, and kind. Thinking about her father made Molly wish she wasn't having this baby alone; she wanted her baby to have the father figure that she had had in her life: the dad who spent all night on the phone with his sister the day before her first school dance asking about make-up tips and how hair spray worked, who made lemon tarts for her birthday and would hug them every day.

She began to cry.

She didn't hear the small rap at her door, or hear him come in for that matter, but soon enough she saw his tall figure move to sit down next to her, and stare at her wall.

"Bill is learning but he's still an idiot in some respects," Sherlock sighed. Molly wiped her face off and looked up at him. His face was blank, and he made no move to comfort her.

"I'm sorry," she sighed. "I didn't mean to get so upset. Thinking of Dad just gets me…I don't know," she huffed again and looked down at Gandalf, who was rubbing his head against the dresser.

"What is that?" Sherlock asked, pointing to the picture tacked to the wall.

"Bill drew it," Molly sighed. "His interpretation of what the baby will look like,"

_"_Hmmm," Sherlock considered it, for a moment. It felt like an eternity had passed before he spoke again. "Silly to guess this. He made the right assumptions, dominant genes winning out, even gave him heterochromia iridum if you look close enough to the cross hatching in the eyes," Molly followed his finger. He was right, the left was darker than the right. "Although it's illogical to speculate such a thing whole heartedly. You won't know who the baby takes after until at least three months," he turned to her. "And for both of your sakes, I hope he looks like you,"

Molly shook her head. "Those cheekbones are an asset," she quipped.

Sherlock let a giggle loose. Real or not she couldn't speculate, but it didn't matter.

"Do you want to know the sex?" Molly asked.

"It's not my place," he said.

"Right," Molly said. A sudden, unshakeable feeling of defeat flooded over her. Suddenly she wasn't as excited as she had been. She didn't think it would matter if Sherlock would want to know or not, but somewhere deep down inside of her, she had hoped that maybe he would be a little curious about his child.

"I best go to bed," Molly said. "Early appointment tomorrow,"

"Right," Sherlock tapped the bed and hopped up. He looked back at her.

"I am sorry about Bill," Sherlock said.

"It's fine, really. I'm just going to sleep it off,"

Sherlock nodded, turning quickly with Gandalf in tow, and flipped the light off for her.

::::::

"Are you excited?" Dr. Dixon asked Molly as she lay on her back, bare stomach exposed and moist with wet goo.

"I've decided I don't want to know, actually," Molly said.

"What? Last time you were practically on Cloud Nine after I told you,"

"I think I'd just rather be surprised. Knowing will just have me overthinking everything, like names and nursery colours,"

Dr. Dixon smiled sweetly down at Molly, with only a flicker of sympathy in her eyes. Surely she knew Molly's situation, and had seen countless girls like her before. Single mothers hoping against hope to try and get the father interested enough to come to an appointment, pick a name, or even ask about how her heartburn was that morning.

"How about this," she said. "I'll write it down for you and put it in an envelope. When you get home, do whatever you want with it. But the option will be there,"

Molly nodded, and the Doctor smiled again before beginning the ultrasound.

::::::

It was the heaviest envelope she had ever carried in her life.

She was absolutely torn about looking. It had sat on the edge of her desk all day at work and practically stared her down, daring her to rip it open and put an end to her anxiety once and for all. She had contemplated throwing it in the trash, but couldn't bring herself to do it. She didn't want to know, but she couldn't throw away the only answer either.

When she got into Baker Street, she was surprised only to see Sherlock in. He was standing at the kitchen, holding a vial of some liquid up to the light. She didn't ask.

"Where's Bill?" Molly asked, putting her purse on the hat rack.

"Ran to the store to get some more Coke-A-Cola. Studying the effects of constant sugar intake on the urine," he put the vial down and removed his gloves.

"Is that really necessary? I mean, haven't there been studies?"

"Yes, but I'm incredibly bored and John would never fall for these sorts of tricks," he looked at his feet. "He's already gone through two liters since noon."

"That's barbaric," she pulled the envelope out of her pocket and held it up to him. "Get rid of this?"

"What is it?"

"Does it matter?"

"A strange envelope being thrust into my face with the request to destroy it?"

"It's the baby's gender results. I don't want them but she insisted on giving them to me in case I changed my mind,"

Sherlock frowned. "I thought you did want to know,"

"I don't. Not any more. No more name lists," she said, pushing across the counter. "Just get rid of it for me?"

"Of course," he said. Molly smiled at him before turning to go back up the stairs to take a long, long nap.

Sherlock reached out and looked at the envelope. Gandalf hopped onto the counter and began sniffing the vile of urine as Sherlock went to hold it over the Bunsen burner.

But then he stopped.

He drew the envelope closer to him, and looked back to the stairs. Molly had already shut the door, and was probably fast asleep by the weary look in her eyes and her hunched shoulders.

Tenderly, he drew his finger under the seal and popped it open. He reached in and pulled out a simple piece of notebook paper, and let Gandalf attack the manila envelope. Tentatively, he unfolded it, and read.

"…Interesting," he said.

Suddenly the door downstairs slammed open, and Bill was at the doorway holding two more liters.

"I'm ready!" he said. "I think I can get the first and half down in fifteen." he noticed the piece of paper he had daintily in his hand. "What you got there?"

Sherlock's head jerked up, and swiftly pocketed the piece of paper in his front jacket pocket.

"Nothing. Unscrew the top."


	7. Chapter 7

For the first time in twenty weeks, and without any notice to put on pants, Molly Hooper saw John and Mary Watson for the first time since Moriarty hijacked London's televisions.

She didn't have to go into Bart's until 3 o clock, and the downstairs had been rather quiet. Gandalf had moved up to her bed, which he usually did when Sherlock left, and was curled into a fluffy white ball by her feet. She shifted slightly, and he perked up, making his way down towards her face for a nuzzle.

_He smells like Sherlock _she thought, scratching his head as he purred happily. Molly sighed, and with great discomfort, sat up in bed.

Her stomach had begun to feel like a bowling ball attached to her torso. It was still only a bump, but Molly hated waking up every morning and having to get used another new discomfort. This morning, it seemed, was going to be lower back pain.

"Bloody hell," She threw one leg out of the bed and then the other, wishing that she could simply float downstairs. A bath sounded downright beautiful right now.

She walked over to the doorway and listened. It didn't sound like anyone was downstairs, which meant no one was in the shower. Almost giddy with excitement, she grabbed one of her towels and let herself out of the room, Gandalf slipping between her legs and running down the stairs in front of her.

When she reached the bottom she saw that Sherlock had left a bowl of Gandalf's food out, saving her the time of having to fill it herself. Bill wasn't home either- the living room's couch was nicely made up, and his sketchbook was tucked under the couch with the rest of his belongings.

"Bill? Sherlock?"

Silence. Smiling to herself, Molly walked down the hallway and into the bathroom. She started the hot water tap.

:::::::

She had maybe been in five minutes before the door slammed open and voices flooded into the apartment.

"Sherlock, are you sure it's safe for us to be here?" John's voice hit Molly like a bucket of cold water. _Shit._

"I promise you, John, Mycroft has this place rigged to the nines with surveillance. And as we're not going to make a habit of it, I think it's fine that you all be here for one simple day,"

"_Simple_ doesn't sound like the right word for our situation," Mary chided. "Isn't that right, Charlotte? Uncle Lock couldn't define simple if her ran face first into a dictionary."

Molly's heart seized. They brought the baby too.

"Uncle _Lock_?"

"Well 'Sherlock' is too long of a name for her to say!" Mary giggled. "Besides, I think it's cute."

Sherlock sneered but didn't say anything. Molly slowly began to lift herself from the bathtub.

"Oh! There she is!" Molly heard Mrs. Hudson's voice ring out as she climbed the stairs. "Is this Charlotte?"

"Yes!" Molly began to slowly put her nightie back on. She didn't dare start to let the tub water out, fearing it would make that loud hollow noise and alert everyone to her whereabouts.

"Oh, she's precious!" Mrs. Hudson cooed over the baby, speaking to her in high-pitched little whispers.

"How about I make some tea?" asked Mary.

"I've never seen the kitchen so clean," John said. "And is that a _cat?_"

"Aw, get lonely, Sherlock?" Mary laughed. "The sink's not working,"

"Oh, that'll be the piping," Mrs. Hudson said. "it's acting funny again. Just get the water from the bathroom, dear."

Molly froze, and two options immediately came to mind: One, she could walk out now, let everyone know she was here, pregnant, and quite comfortable taking baths in Sherlock's house, or two, she could run out of the room screaming, hail a cab, catch a flight, start a new life in the Caribbean, and forget all about the embarrassing scenario of letting your friends find out you're pregnant and living with a man by having them walk in on you wet and nearly naked.

Unfortunately, Molly chose option one.

Mary turned the door handle and immediately stopped in her tracks as she saw Molly standing in the way of the sink, hair dripping onto her nightie covered belly.

"Molly?" Mary asked. "What are you doing here? What is-" her eyes widened a bit before looking back up at Molly is disbelief.

"You're pregnant?"

Molly was about to speak before John and Sherlock came down the hall and looked in.

"Molly? What are you doing here?" John asked.

"She's pregnant," Mary said.

"What? Oh my god-"

"Yes, everyone pile into the bathroom, where's is humid and wet-"

"Shut up, Sherlock. Molly, how long-"

"Who's the father?"

"Surely not-"

"Could we maybe move this to the living room?"

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I'm just saying-"

"Molly? Are you feeling okay?"

Before Molly could nod, she dropped down to her knees and vomited into the toilet, and hoped she would never have to take her head out.

:::;;;;;;;;;;;;;

If she was being honest, she wished she could have tea at a time like this. If she was being more honest, she wished she could have a drink.

She sat in John's old chair, Sherlock next to her, looking at the Watsons as they were propped on the couch. Molly was holding Charlotte for the first time, but the joy of holding baby Watson had been drained by the sheer embarrassment she felt at this moment.

"How many weeks?" John asked.

"Twenty," Sherlock answered. Gandalf jumped onto his lap.

"How long has she been living here?" Mary's turn.

"About fifteen weeks I'd say. Up in your old bed room."

"Is it yours?" Mary asked. John guffawed.

"No," Sherlock lied. Molly twitched.

Mary's eyes narrowed. "You're lying."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock sat up a straighter and leaned in.

"You're lying, I can tell. I was trained to tell when someone was lying and you are definitely lying," Mary's attention turned to Molly. "Is he the father?"

Molly went silent for a second.

"It was a sperm donor-"

"Doesn't answer my question, is he the father?" Mary asked again, a little more harshly that Molly would have liked.

Molly turned back and looked at baby Charlotte, and wished that she had just stayed in bed.

"Yes," Sherlock answered for her.

John's mouth dropped open.

"Are you serious?"

"Why on earth-"

"Molly wanted a child, I helped her have a child," Sherlock looked over at Molly, who felt like she was on the verge of crying.

"Did you know about Mor-"

"No, it was before,"

"So you two-"

Sherlock scoffed. "Please. It was a donation."

Molly stood up, and handed Charlotte back to John.

"I'm going to be late for work," she choked.

"You don't have work until 3," Sherlock countered.

"Going to finish some early paper work," Molly called out as she made her way to the stairs.

Mary took Charlotte back into her arms, but not before sending Sherlock a venomous look.

"Oh brilliant, you git."

"What? What did I do?"

"No woman wants to hear someone laugh at the possibility of having sex with her," Mary snapped, hugging Charlotte a little closer.

"I wasn't laughing, I was telling the truth!"

"You didn't have to be so rude about it," John mumbled.

"Molly and I are both adults. We knew what we were doing."

"I forget you don't understand human emotion sometimes," John muttered.

"It's boring," Sherlock gave a wave of his hand. "Now, Mary, do you think you could stay here and wait for Molly to return while John and I go out?"

;;;;;;

Leaving early actually worked out in Molly's favor. The Mycroft's preapproved cab driver raced over to her house in record time, which let her leave the flat rather quickly. She asked if they could run through a drive through to get her a milkshake, and sat in the back and tried not to cry.

No one thought that Sherlock would really have sex with her, but he didn't have to say it in such a rude bloody way. While she had come to terms long ago that it would probably never happen, it still hurt to be shut down in such a curt, cold manner. Molly bit her lip and quickly wiped a tear out of her eye. It didn't help that she was a walking bag of hormones, and that every time she looked in the mirror she only saw a fat, old, mousy woman who couldn't start a family the old fashioned way; no, she had to forgo getting married to man who loved her well enough in favor of getting herself pregnant with some bastard's bastard. A cold, calculating, mean, crueld bas-

Molly gave a little shriek. While she knew how Sherlock could be, she never considered the possibility that her baby could inherit his tendencies. She had heard horror stories from John about how Sherlock dismissed his poor parents whenever they came to visit him, and Molly now wondered if that's how her child would see her: a burden, an annoying puppy that just wanted love. Images of a self reliant three year old pushing away her face, avoiding kisses, and spending time making rude, loud deductions on the tube shocked her. She hadn't been so naïve to believe that a baby would solve all of her problems, but she had expected it to fill some part of her that she felt was missing, the part where family belonged. Someone to make Christmas cookies with, someone to make Halloween costumes for, someone to teach and love and nurture. Now images of a baby as cold and horrid as it's father flashed before her eyes, and Molly started sobbing.

"Here you go Miss, one vanilla shake," the cabbie reached back and his face fell as soon as he saw Molly's tears.

"Oh no, is everything okay, love?"

Molly reached out for the milkshake and stirred it around with the spoon.

"I'll be okay," she gave him a good natured smile through the tears.

He nodded, and began to pull out. Molly sipped her milkshake and tried to keep her thoughts at bay.

;;;;;;;;

"When were you going to tell me?" John asked, and he and Sherlock crossed Baker street and hailed a taxi.

"Hopefully never," Sherlock said. "The plan was to leave Molly to a life of single parenthood and spend my last few months alive roaming eastern Europe, throwing a wrench in crime boss's schemes until I got a bullet in the head,"

John winced at his candor. "And now?"

"Now what?" Sherlock asked.

"Now she's living with you?"

"Yes, for the time being." Sherlock hailed a cab. He was sick on relying on Mycroft's approved taxi service, and really only saw it as a way to keep Molly safe. His own mortality fell far lower on his list of concerns.

"Is she your girlfriend?"

Sherlock laughed. "I don't have girlfriends," he corrected, before opening the cab door.

"When's she due?" John asked.

"Soon enough, I'd imagine. She went in for her first sonogram about four weeks ago, putting her at twenty weeks I believe. Scotland Yard, please," Sherlock told the cabbie.

"Boy or girl?"

"I know, Molly doesn't."

"Why?"

"She didn't want to know, asked me to destroy the answer she got back in an envelope,"

"You checked it?"

Sherlock pulled a piece of paper out his coat pocket, and handed it over to John.

"You keep it in your pocket?"

"Don't act like it's sentimental. I left it in there,"

"Right," he unfolded the paper and read. "Have you written names?"

"Molly found it emotionally taxing, I thought I could give her some suggestions-"

John stared at Sherlock, his best friend, his brilliant, brilliant best friend, and for the first time in their long friendship, could tell that he was bullshitting.

"You're not doing this for Molly," John said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped his head to towards John.

"You want to be involved,"

"I most certainly do not,"

"Tell me then, why are some names scratched out and others underlined?"

"I wrote some before doing research-"

"_Research?_"

Before Sherlock could answer, the car took a violent hard left. Both men looked up just in time to see the front of the cab hit another car, and begin to roll. Instinctively, they curled their necks in and balled up, but passed out any way.

;;;;;;;;;

Molly liked being in her office, sometimes. The milkshake had calmed her down quite a bit, and now she was happily filling out some of her colleagues reports. She missed being in the morgue, but her last trip to Dr. Dixon had warned her against some of the chemicals used in autopsies. So now and until her due date, she was kept in her office, only occasionally venturing into the morgue to answer an intern's question.

At the moment, she was filling out a report on some nasty case of flesh eating disease, while an Internet radio played from her computer. She wished she had gotten to work on this patient. The details of the report sounded beautifully gory and Sherlock would have loved-

_Stop. Stop it, Molly. _

She signed her name at the bottom and pushed back her chair. She had worried at first that she would be sitting down more than recommended by doing only paper work, but her frequent bathroom breaks had taught her that she had been mistaken in worrying. Molly waddled over to the door and into the hallway, praying that she would make it to the bathroom on time.

;;;;;;;

Sherlock woke up on his side, with John Watson passed out next to him. The cabbie was gone, and Sherlock could hear the wails of sirens roaring down the street. He moved his shoulder and unlocked his seat belt, only to cut his bicep on a shard of broken glass. He hissed as he pulled it out, and then turned around to wake John.

"John, John!" he shook his friend until he came to.

"What? What happened?"

"Accident. Are you hurt?"

"No. I don't think so-"

"Good," Sherlock began to crawl out of the cab, and stood up to inspect the damage.

Somehow in his and John's heated discussion, he hadn't noticed that the cabbie had driven them down a back alley. Only now were people coming to inspect the damage. The other car they had crashed into was gone, with only broken glass and paint scraps on the cab as evidence that it had been there. One woman who had sprung from the back door of what looked to be a restaurant ran up and helped John out of the car.

"Did you see the other car who got away?" Sherlock asked quickly.

She shook her head. "We heard a crash, but we thought it was one of our supply trucks dropping something heavy. Someone's already called the police, though. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Sherlock turned to John. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I believe so," he sighed. "I've only gotten back to working cases with you for _one day_,"

"Please, don't complain," Sherlock pulled out his phone and checked the time, to only immediately receive a text.

I DON'T LIKE THE NAME 'AIDEN'. TOO BORING FOR YOUR CHILD. – JM

Sherlock felt his heart drop into his stomach and splash acid.

"John, we have to leave,"

"What? The paramedics-"

"John," Sherlock held up his phone. "I think something's about to happen to Molly,"

;;;;;;;

Molly had only just finished peeing when the buzzer went off.

"CODE 9. CODE 9. BART'S HOSPITAL IS OFFICIALLY ON LOCK DOWN. STAY IN YOUR OFFICES UNTIL YOU ARE GIVEN CLEARANCE."

Molly's hand flew to her pocket. Empty. She must have left her keys in her office. Quickly, she made for the door and slammed it shut, locking the top quickly and backing into the wall of the single. She tried to keep her heart rate down. It was probably just a drill. It had to be. It had been fifteen weeks already-

There was a bang at the door and she gave a shriek, and then quickly covered her mouth.

"Missus Hooper?" a gruff voice asked. "Open the door, please."

;;;;;;

John had never seen Sherlock make a call so quickly in his life. As the two were running down the street, he had somehow managed to dial Lestrade while being at least two to three paces in front of John.

"Lestrade," he barked. "I think something's going to happen to Molly,"

"She's not at Bart's, is she?"

"Yes! Why?"

"The place is on lock down. Saw a man a few blocks away with a bomb strapped to chest, threatening to blow the whole street! Your brother's security team jumped on him,"

"I don't think it's the bomb threat you'll have to worry about. Has anyone gone inside the hospital?"

"I don't know-"

Sherlock hung the phone up and immediately texted Molly.

ARE YOU SAFE? –SH

He looked around frantically before choosing a route. John, who was breathing heavily behind him, could barely keep up. Being stuck inside a safe house for weeks had crippled his progress with cycling, and he felt pathetic having to bend over and catch his breath.

"Hurry, John!" Sherlock cried, before beginning to make another call.

;;;;;;

"Missus Hooper, are you going to make me break down this door?"

Molly tried to keep quiet, and clutched at her stomach.

"I know you're in there," there was a quick BANG against the door. Molly let out a cry.

"GO AWAY!" she yelled.

"That'd be against orders," the man answered. Another BANG, and Molly heard the lock rattle, about to give.

"WHAT DO YOU WANT?" she said, reaching into her pocket, grasping for something, anything to use as a weapon.

With one more BANG the doo fell down, just narrowly missing Molly. She looked up and saw the gaunt figure of a blonde, scarred man. He was dirty, almost as if he had been living on the streets for weeks, and from his rolled up sleeves she could see track marks on his arms. She looked him in the eye and saw his pupils were the size of quarters. Heroin addict. High. Dangerous.

"What do you want?" Molly asked again. The man smiled, held up his hand, and flicked his thumb. Switchblade.

"I want to cut that little baby girl out of you, Missus Hooper,"

;;;;;;;;;;;;

Sherlock arrived at Bart's, running on pure adrenaline. The cop cars had already made it there, securing the area and gearing up officers to go in.

"Lestrade!" he cried, and ran over to Greg and clutched his shoulders.

"Where's Molly? What's happened?"

"Turns out you were right, the bomb threat was actually just some poor man being forced to distract the security teams. We think Molly is still in the building, we have some officers getting ready to – hey!" He called after Sherlock as he ran through a maze of cars and officers, leaping over obstacles before bursting through Bart's doors. Molly's office. Where was Molly's office?

Third floor.

He spotted the opening for the stairs and immediately began climbing two, three at a time. He reached the third floor door in less than twenty seconds and slammed it open.

"Molly!" he called.

Hallway well lit. Carpet treaded heavily here. Bulletin board. Smell of coffee. He ran down the hallway. Offices 300-317, right. 318-330, left. Molly's office was by the bathrooms. Bathrooms were connected to the piping system which favored the left side of the building. Left.

"Molly!" he cried out again, running down the hall. He heard a cry from farther down.

"MOLLY!" he screamed. He started to see it: a busted door. Kicked in. metallic smell. Smell of blood.

He reached to door and balanced himself on the frame.

"Molly," he whispered.

On the floor, with her hands covered in blood, Molly Hooper lay holding her stomach. She wept loudly and openly, and stared down at the man who had a switchblade protruding from his neck. Sherlock looked back at Molly.

"He was going to kill her, Sherlock," she cried. "He was going to kill our daughter!"

Sherlock's face softened. He had found the missing puzzle piece. Gingerly, he stepped over the body and offered his hand to Molly. She took it weakly, prompting him to grip it tightly and pull her into a hug. She began to cry harshly, staining his coat with tears and snot and blood. He didn't mind.

He had done this to her.

;;;;;;;;

Back at Baker Street, Mycroft was livid.

"You took a cab that had not been preapproved, and continued to discuss personal matters in front of a stranger?!"

Sherlock's head was in his hands, avoiding eye contact with his angry older brother.

"Not only that, but you let Dr. Hooper leave the house without any sort of mace or weapon for self defense? Has this case really made you so careless?"

"I know," Sherlock growled.

"Why were you ever carrying around that stupid piece of paper, anyway?"

"Because I left it in my jacket!" Sherlock snapped at him. Mycroft was unimpressed.

"You left Mary Watson and her child alone in this house. You let Dr. Hooper leave before her scheduled time. You took strange cab and continued to talk about confidential matters in front of a complete stranger. Did I make a mistake in taking you off that plane?"

Sherlock remained quiet, and steepled his fingers in front of his face, staring down at the floor. Mycroft sneered.

"The man with the bomb was Mr. Johnson, one of Moriarty's unfortunate victims. Plucked from a tube station and kept in a safe house should he ever need a distraction. It would appear that he has been keeping some of his men in this area disguised as cab drivers, guessing correctly that you would one day think yourself above reproach and take the chance just to get to a place quicker. The cabbie texted instructions to one another, crashed the car, and then made their way to Bart's while you lay incapacitated. Mr. Johnson was dropped off three blocks away from the hospital to send it into lockdown, but not before the other driver found his way to Molly's floor."

"You didn't need to explain it to me. I'm not a child."

"Oh?" Mycroft asked. He fixed his glove and made to grab his cane. "Today you were thoughtless, Sherlock, and it almost cost you your child. So excuse me if I feel that now is an appropriate time to explain to you just what your mistakes made possible," he made to leave, but not before Sherlock stuck out his hand.

"Mycroft,"

"You can't be serious. It's _evidence,"_

"_Mycroft,"_

Mycroft sighed, and pulled the ratty sheet of paper from his pocket.

"Moriarty was right on one account," he sighed. "I don't see you having a daughter named Aiden,"

Sherlock waved him away, and began to look over his list. When he heard the door slam, he pushed himself up from his chair.

Molly was sitting on her bed, sitting cross-legged and rubbing circles on her stomach. She didn't hear when Sherlock came in.

"Oh," she said, pulling her sweater over her stomach. "Hello,"

"Hi," he said, and crossed his arms. "How-how are you?"

Molly bit her lip for a moment, and then looked back at him.

"I don't regret it," she said. "Does that make me a monster?"

Sherlock's mouth fell open slightly. "No, Molly."

"It's just," she sucked in air through her teeth and breathed out shakily. "It's just I was sitting up her, rubbing cocoa butter onto these bloody stretch marks and I realized…I don't regret killing him at all," she wiped a tear away. "He was going to hurt me, hurt the baby and…I just…"

Sherlock quickly moved over to the bed and dropped down beside her. She looked up at him and laughed.

"She's got no hope, does she?" Molly asked. "Mother like me. Crying all the time," she put her palms to her eyes and pushed in.

"I think she's already yards ahead of the competition," Sherlock said. Molly's face went soft, and they held each other's gaze for just a second too long before Gandalf jumped up between then and began batting at Sherlock's paper.

"What's that?"

Sherlock forgot he still had the report in his hand.

"Nothing," he made to pocket it, but Molly's hand reached out and caught his wrist, while the other hand slipped it out of his grasp. She brought it up to her face, and Sherlock watched her with uncertainty as she read it.

"It's my results," she said. "You kept them?"

He coughed. "Yes. I thought it would be prudent to keep files like these, should any incidents occur in which knowing the sex would be beneficial-"

"You wrote names," she said.

He didn't know how to explain that one as well.

"You seemed emotionally strained by the process. I thought I'd help, I did some research, looked up some meanings. I thought you'd like to avoid plain, common names, having gone through life with a name like Molly-"

Molly smiled at his quip as he rattled on. Despite his dig, he was fighting off the inevitable. She had heard him talk to Mycroft, about how he had kept the scrap in his jacket pocket, and analyzing the carefully penned names, it have become clear: Sherlock Holmes, whether he liked it or not, wanted to be involved in his daughter's life.

"She's kicking," Molly interrupted. She reached out and grabbed his big hand, and placed it on her stomach, ignoring his protests. Under his hand, something pressed up against his palm, as if to say hello. He sat there, transfixed, feeling a small, living being press against it's walls and touch him.

"Tell me your favorite names," Molly said after a moment, prompting him to look back up.

He dropped his hand from her stomach and reached for the piece of paper lying next to her. He cleared his throat, sat up straight, and began to analyze the names of the paper as if they were names of suspects.

"Willow is based in nature, so I thought that might fit. But then I thought it might seem too hippie, so it was crossed out-"

Molly leaned back, and turned onto her left, listening to his deep, melodic voice fill her tiny room as he rattled off names. She felt herself drifting in and out, until she finally gave into a long, heavy, and deserved sleep.

But not before hearing the name.

;;;;;

She got up in the morning, surprisingly pain free. She made her way down to the kitchen, past Bill's sleeping form on the couch and found Sherlock in the kitchen making coffee.

"Good morning, Molly," he said. "Eggs?"

"Violet,"

"What?" he asked.

"Violet. That's the name,"

Sherlock paused for a moment, staring her down in a confused way. She waited for a response, but it felt like ages.

_Oh god, I've broken him._

Finally, he opened his mouth, turned back to look her in the eyes.

"Violet," he said, as if trying it out on his tongue.

"That's right," she nodded. "Violet Hooper Holmes," She pulled out a breakfast bar chair and sat on top. "and eggs sound perfect."

After a beat, Sherlock turned to the ice box and pulled out the eggs, careful not to let Molly see the small grin on his face.

**Thank you all for your lovely reviews! They keep me happy. I hope you liked this chapter. I always knew that Molly would be having a girl. I've got big plans for Violet Holmes!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys! Sorry I haven't been updating as quickly, college is killing me! But I found some time today to write this up. I hope you like it, I'm pretty proud of it! Your reviews make my day! I can't believe this silly little story got all of y'all's attention!**

"Honestly, Sherlock-"

"I'm trying to concentrate,"

"One of the greatest minds in all of the nation-"

"Mycroft-"

"-and you can't figure this out?"

"The design is flawed,"

"How convenient, blaming the manufacturing,"

"Shut up, will you?"

"Sherlock?" the two brothers heads snapped up after hearing Molly cry up the stairs. Slowly, carrying her heavy belly, she maneuvered herself into her room to find the two Holmes brothers, Mycroft leaning against the wall and Sherlock on the floor, in front of what looked like a half assembled crib.

"What's this?"

"A gift," Mycroft answered, before Sherlock could interject.

"Oh, that's so sweet, you really didn't have to, Mycroft,"

"It's not from me, unfortunately," he scowled and looked down at the instructions in his hand. "You really ought to read these,"

"I know what I'm doing!" Sherlock snapped, not taking his eyes off what he was at least fifty percent certain was one of the bars to the small cage.

"Who's it from then?" Molly asked, moving to sit on her bed. At 30 weeks, it was getting hard to move around, and the highlight of her day was coming home to sit and relax for a moment.

"The grandparents," Mycroft turned to Sherlock "Honestly, if you keep shoving those bits together it's going to fall apart onto itself,"

"Maybe if our mother hadn't thought to buy a crib from IKEA," Sherlock popped himself up and looked over to Molly. "They'll be coming round tonight,"

Molly's eyes widened. "Sorry, what?"

"Unfortunate news, I know," Sherlock smoothed his hair and looked down at the mess. "Don't suppose you know how these things go together, do you?"

"Do we need to cook?" Molly asked, starting to get up. "I have some pasta I can make,"

"They'll be bringing dinner," Mycroft said, looking down at his watch. "They'll be here in about an hour, in fact."

"Are you staying?"

Mycroft gave a curt nod. "Family dinner,"

Mummy Holmes was a hurricane of a woman.

True, Molly had been intimidated by the Holmes family before, but something about Vivianne Holmes set her closer to the edge. She commanded the room's presence and would not let it go for the life of her. Her husband, who Molly related with much more, was a pleasant older man who just smiled and nodded with everything his wife tittered on about. In fact, when the bell rang, and Sherlock (reluctantly) opened the door, she waltzed in as if it were her house, carrying a large dish of something that turned Molly's stomach, and began talking, eyes sweeping over the clutter of the living room.

"You've decided to raise a child in this _mess, _Sherlock?"

"It's not my child," he said, following up behind her. Molly sat in John's chair, Gandalf perched on her arm rest, and felt suddenly self-conscious. She had tried to look nice for her first meeting with the elder Holmes, even putting a headband in her hair, but now she just felt like she looked juvenile.

"You genes, your child," she placed the dish down on the table and jerked her head towards Molly. "You must be Molly then, dear?"

Molly was a bit startled by her quick shift in tones, but gave her a quick, almost too excited, nod. She began to get up, but Mrs. Holmes waved away her effort, eyes traveled down to Molly's swollen belly, and took her in.

"How many weeks are you?"

"30 yesterday," Molly said, spreading her fingers across the top of her stomach.

"Won't be long now, then?"

"No ma'am."

Mrs. Holmes approached her carefully, almost like she was considering buying Molly at a live auction. Her hand went from her mouth and then hovered over her belly, before retracting it, and then reaching out again.

"May I?"

"Of course,"

Violet was kicking, and Mrs. Holmes obviously felt it. Her eyes widened and she gave a slight smirk. She dropped her hand and turned back to her sons, who were standing quietly, watching the scene.

"Shall we eat?"

Despite being many parents' dream, Molly was always uncomfortable with family dinners. She never knew what to say, and in lieu of being able to bite her nails, she would often pick at them under the table, a trait Sherlock noticed.

"Stop picking, Molly," he said as he dolloped some green bean casserole onto his plate. Molly's hands flew to her sides. The smell of mushrooms made her nauseous, but she didn't want to be rude and refuse Mrs. Holmes dish. She wondered if she could handle having the offending smell on her plate, next to the parmesan chicken cutlet and rice that had actually smelled good enough to make her hungry.

"Sherlock, don't correct her," his mother snapped. Her attention then suddenly turned back to Molly.

"So, Molly, tell me about yourself,"

"Well-"

"Oh must we really do this?" Sherlock said. He turned towards Molly. "I promise you she's already pumped Mycroft for ever last detail he could squeeze out of the British government's records. By the way, when were you going to tell me that you were in the Peace Corps for a year?"

"Sherlock!" his mother gasped. "There's no need to be so beastly, we're just trying to make small talk,"

"It is true, though," Mycroft bit into a green bean before turning towards Molly "but really, why _did _you choose Laos?"

"Excellent casserole, love," Mr. Holmes said, smiling to himself.

"So, Molly, do you know what the sex is?" Mrs. Holmes was quick to change the subject, something Molly was grateful for. Finally, something she could happily chat away about.

"A girl," she smiled. In the past weeks she had fallen in love with the fact that she was going to have a little girl. While she didn't want to admit it, she had hoped her first child wasn't going to be a boy. She had a hard enough time understanding them in their adult forms, and was worried that her incompetence would translate to their younger counterparts and make her an awful mother. Plus, she liked the idea of having a little girl to dress in tiny lab coats and play 'experiments' with, jump-starting a new generation of female scientists. She couldn't wait until she could plait her daughters hair back, put on some oversized lab goggles on her tiny, perfect face and show her how to dissect a cow eye.

Good god, Molly thought to herself, she's going to have an absolute nutter for a mum.

"Have you thought of names?" Mrs. Holmes broke her trance.

"Violet," Molly said.

"Oh, that's beautiful. Isn't that beautiful, Henry?"

"Oh yes,"

"That does sound familiar," Mycroft wolfishly smiled, eying his brother. "How did you come up with it?"

"Oh I didn't Sher-"

"Anyone want any bread?" Sherlock interrupted. However, his mother had already deduced what Molly was saying.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes said, leaning into the table so she could get a better look at her son. "Did you-?"

"I gave advice," Sherlock said. He took a bun for himself.

"Oh come no, brother," Mycroft said, looking smug. "tell mummy about how you named you _daughter_."

Sherlock side eyed Mycroft as Mrs. Holmes continued.

"Violet…wasn't that the name…who was it the name of?"

Sherlock looked as if his face was made of porcelain right on the cusp of cracking. He ground his jaw.

"Yes, Sherlock, who?" Mycroft baited.

Sherlock sighed and looked up at the ceiling.

"She was a wonderful teacher-"

"Ha! That's right!" Mrs. Holmes turned towards Molly, grinning. "there was a teacher he had during primary, wonderful woman. He had to be around seven or eight when he was put in her class. Brilliant. _Huge_ on teaching science. She used to keep butterfly cocoons in the class, take the children to the labs on Fridays, and have the entire lot of them do little experiments. What was that one of yours that she liked so much, Sherlock?"

His nose crinkled and with an obvious distaste, he began to answer her before she cut him off.

"That's right! For his final project, he did one of his funny studies on ash in the teaching longue ashtrays! She loved it! When she gave him the ribbon for best project, I don't think I'd ever seen him so red! Oh, you had a bit of a crush on her, come on," Mrs. Holmes giggled. "What happened to her, anyway?"

"Breast cancer," Sherlock answered, flicking his napkin out. "2010."

"Oh dear," Mrs. Holmes covered her mouth. "That poor, sweet woman. She was a great teacher,"

"The best," Sherlock said. He picked up his plate and stood. "I'm finished. If you'll excuse me," he marched towards the kitchen and deposited his plate, before making his way to his bedroom and shutting the door, letting the music of a violin waft into the hallway. Molly poked around at her casserole, and back at the Holmes family.

"Any middle names?" Mrs. Holmes asked.

The Holmes had been gone for about an hour before Molly decided to brave knocking on Sherlock's door. Bill had just gotten back from one of his Addicts Anonymous meetings, and had passed out on the couch after eating a good amount of the left over casserole. The music had stopped some minutes earlier, causing her knocks to echo throughout the hallway, and causing the silence to weigh heavy on her shoulders until she heard him call in his baritone voice

"Come in,"

She pushed open the door and peered in. He sat on his bed, still in his dress clothes, petting Gandalf's head as he lay curled next to Sherlock. Sherlock stared at the wall, lost in thought.

"I cleaned up the kitchen," Molly said, leaning against the door frame. Sherlock didn't respond. Maybe he didn't hear her.

"I cleaned up-"

"Molly, if you want to say something, say it. Don't feel the need to soften it with an introduction."

Reluctantly, she waddled over to the bed and carefully sat herself down on the opposite corner. She looked down at him, still lost in thought and drawing circles with his long finger on top of Gandalf's head.

"She was a teacher," Molly stated.

"Yes," he answered.

"Why?" Molly asked.

Sherlock still didn't look back.

"She was the first person to tell me that my skills didn't make me a freak," he said.

Molly's mouth fell open. While she knew how adults talked, she couldn't imagine a young Sherlock having to deal with the same cruelty. She saw him suddenly, a young boy trying to make friends with the kids around him the only way he knew how, and being shunned for it or played up to be a playground legend. How scary it must have been for him, how alienating and lonely. She felt the urge to hug him then, but thought better of it.

"She'd let me practice on her. Try and trick me. Always tell me how brilliant I was. Silly things," he said in response to her silence, letting his head fall between his hands. She felt her face soften.

"Kindness isn't silly, Sherlock," Molly said.

His back straightened, and he finally turned around to take her in. She tried smiling at him, but whether or not this comforted him, he gave no response. Violet kicked against her hand.

"She's moving," Molly said, finally breaking the tension. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to her stomach. "I think she liked the music."

Silently, he got up and reached for his violin, turning back to her with a flourish.

"What would you like to hear?"

"Bach," she said. She settled herself against the pillows, as he began playing a sweet, melancholic melody that settled Violet into a calm.

Sherlock knew Molly hadn't meant to fall asleep on his bed. When he turned around after god knows how long, he saw her, passed out with Gandalf at her feet, belly extending from her body like an exercise ball. Quietly as he could, he put the violin down, and went to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.

He didn't know why he had included Miss Moss's name on Molly's list. Everything he said about her was true: she was a fantastic teacher, and one of the first people in his life to show him kindness. But letting Molly know that, even as indirectly as putting it on a name list felt so…personal. Of course fate would have it that she picked that one, too.

As he leaned against the counter, drinking the tap, his eyes fell across a paper that had his mother's handwriting all over it. In her neat cursive, she had practiced writing her granddaughter's name, with different middle names, over and over again.

_Violet Claire Holmes_

_Violet Bianca Holmes_

_Violet Marie Holmes_

All looped together in her sweet, matronly script. Sherlock almost discarded the paper before spotting Molly's chicken scratch print at the bottom.

**VIOLET IRIS HOOPER HOLMES**

She had repeated the name. Writing it as neatly as she could, but it was the first time she had written it that struck a cord with Sherlock. It was as if he was looking at the physical evidence of an idea being born.

Violet Iris Hooper Holmes, Violet Iris Hooper Holmes,

Violet Iris. Violet Iris.

He wasn't the sort of man to keep things for sentimental value. He wasn't the man who would cut up old receipts with scribbles on the backs. He wasn't the man who folded neat pieces of paper with their daughter's names into a neat square and put it in their wallet.

He wasn't the sort of man to do that, but he found himself doing it anyway


	9. Chapter 9

Molly hated being cooped up in the house.

At 34 weeks she couldn't exactly move around a lot, but she still didn't like the idea of staying the flat all day. Even though going down two flights of stairs felt like the equivalent of running a marathon, she would push herself to go get a coffee every other day (with Mycroft's security team following her as inconspicuously as possible) just so she could get out of the house. It was the beginning of September, which meant that most days she had to spend 15 minutes contending with trying to wrap herself up in a sweater or some kind of jacket. All of her sweaters were oversized because she enjoyed their comfort, but not so much that she could extend it over her massive belly. There were a few days where she just let it ride up and let her pregnant stomach go uncovered by anything but the shirt she had under. She was over the looks she got on the sidewalk and coffee shop; she was already miserable.

So of course one of the days where it felt like her back was about to split in two, her feet were swollen to the size of pumpkins, she had to pee every fifteen minutes and she could not get comfortable for the life of her, all hell had to break loose.

She was sitting downstairs, wearing an oversize t shirt and maternity pants, sipping hot water with lemon and trying to catch up of Downton Abbey, when the door burst open and everyone she knew piled in.

"How did this happen?" Mycroft barked at Sherlock as Mary came around to sit next to Molly, holding baby Charlotte close to her body. John was pacing the length of the room, holding his hand to his mouth as he thought. Sherlock whipped off his scarf and threw it at the chair, scaring Gandalf off.

"I don't know, Mycroft,"

"The Watson's safe house is discovered and wired with explosives and you _don't know how it happened?_!"

Molly's ears perked up and she turned to Mary, who was holding Charlotte close to her and staring off into space.

"What?"

Mary turned to her and nodded, and looked down at Charlotte. Molly could see a small bandage on the girl's forehead and covering her tiny ears.

"Oh my God," Molly breathed.

"Last night," Mary said. "Woke up to hear a detonator go off. Bastards had planted on in my baby's room. Thankfully the bookshelf was in the way or else she may not have made it," she reached out and ran her nails through some of the fine hair growing out of Charlotte's head as the baby made eye contact with her mother. "Got a scrape pretty bad, and her hearing…" Mary began to cry and Molly reached out to put a hand on her back. "Oh my brave little girl, I'm so sorry," she pressed a kiss on Charlotte's forehead and held her close to her chest.

"We got them out before the others could go off. Seemed like there was a hitch in the wiring: a rat had chewed through one of the circuits in the walls." Mycroft finished for Mary. John came around and sat next to her, consoling her.

"Seems your frugality finally paid off," Sherlock quipped.

"When have I ever proven to be frugal?"

"When you hid the Watson's in a home with the security of a child's dollhouse! Now they are without a home and their daughter is deaf!"

"Sherlock!" Molly barked.

Mycroft fell speechless, for the first time Molly had ever seen. He went to sit in John's old chair, holding both of his hands to the top of his cane and looking towards the floor.

Sherlock turned, looking out the window. "We need to move, quickly. Moriarty is smart, he'll know we would have come here after briefing and as we're all together in one place, he could kill all his birds with one heavy stone," Sherlock turned to face them.

Mycroft pulled out his phone.

"Quite the opposite," he said. "This may be the safest place in London,"

"Forgive me if I don't trust your definition of 'safe' right now,"

"You should," Mycroft's eyes met his brothers before turning his smart phone to face him. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he reached out at took the phone, examining the contents of the screen.

"What is it?" Molly asked.

"Moriarty," Mycroft answered. "It seems the Watson's weren't the only victims of explosives last night. At least three members of Parliament are dead, and the city-"

"Is rioting," Sherlock ran to his laptop, furiously tapping at keys. Mycroft's phone began to blow up with top secret texts, emails, and phone calls. Sirens echoed through the entire street below and Molly began to feel sick with worry.

"Gangs all over London are having open fire warfare in the streets," Mycroft said. "Some people are taking this opportunity to riot stores. There have been five bombings in the last five minutes in Tube stations across the city,"

"What does that mean? Where are the police?"

"Trying to take care of it. London has descended into chaos. I can't keep your security team here," Mycroft looked at Molly.

"Can't you see this is what he wants?" John said. "You let the security team leave and he has complete access to waltz in here and finish the job,"

"What do you want me to tell them, John?" Mycroft said. "Sorry, you can't leave to help thousands of innocent people, my brother might get hurt?"

"Let him come," Sherlock said.

Molly felt something deep within her twist. All this panic was causing her immense pain.

"Invite that psychopath into your house?" John cried. "Have you forgotten that you have a child to consider now?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock turned. "Have Molly, Mary, and John taken away for here. Dispatch your security team to escort them somewhere safe,"

"Oh do not pull that self sacrificial bullshit," Mary spoke up "Is this still a game to you? Half of the fucking city is on fire and you want to keep this stupid battle of wits with him going?"

"I-" Molly began.

"Well what do you suggest?"

"It's impossible. The streets are impassable."

"Well call in a helicopter then!" Sherlock yelled.

"Sherlock-"

"Yes, let me just demand a helicopter leave the site of one of the most massive terror events our nation has ever seen to whisk away four people! I don't even know where a safe place is!"

"Well then what do you plan to do?"

Mycroft went quiet, and looked down at his phone.

"Let me make some calls," he said.

"Excellent," Sherlock turned back to the couch. "Now, Molly, go pack a bag."

"I would but," she held up her hand, wet with fluid. "My water broke,"

**I'm so sorry that this is late! Exams have been killing me and I haven't had much time for fun stuff. Thanks for sticking with me guys!**

**I did see that I got a criticism in my reviews for making Sherlock and Molly's baby a girl, and was told I was 'uncreative' and 'predictable'. Here is my answer to that**

**1)****1) ****I am close to my father, and like the parallel of Molly's relationship to her father with Sherlock's relationship with his daughter. Healthy father-daughter relationships are very rarely shown in media.**

**2)****2) ****There aren't enough women in Sherlock to begin with**

**3)****3) ****It's my story and I wanted them to have a girl.**

**Aside from that, all of your reviews make my day! You are all so sweet. I hope your lives are much more stress free than mine right now!**


	10. Chapter 10

"No, no, NO." Mary yelped. "Are you _bloody _ kidding me?"

Molly looked down at the puddle at her feet and sighed. Of course this would happen now. Sherlock was always difficult and inconvenient, why would his child be any different?

"We can't get her out of here," John said. "Not now. Now with all of-" he flailed his arms at the window.

"Exactly!" Sherlock smiled like a child on Christmas. "This is just what he wanted!"

"How exactly could he have planned for Molly to –"

"He took a risk! Stress often causes labor to begin, and knowing him he could have kept the whole city in pandemonium until the right time. I assume we are being watched as we speak from some undisclosed location and that he will be arriving shortly,"

"Arriving shortly? Here?!" Mycroft spat. He grabbed for his phone and immediately began dialing.

"Don't bother, he'll beat whatever police or medical personnel you can call over,"

"What should we do?" John asked, wringing his hands.

"How about," Molly spoke up, taking in a deep breath with her first contraction hit her like comet. "getting this _fucking_ child out of me?"

The room went silent for a moment, in awe that Molly Hooper had just dropped an f bomb. Annoyed by their shock, she spoke again.

"NOW. WOULD BE NICE."

Immediately John turned to Mary, who nodded and handed Charlotte off to Mycroft, who looked terribly confused by the child. John rolled up his sleeves and turned to Sherlock.

"Your bathtub. How big?"

"Jacuzzi size. Why? Wait, WHY?"

"Right, get up Molly," John slung his arm around Molly's shoulder and began waddling back to Sherlock's room.

"No- You're not going- John-"

"Water births are second to epidurals in terms of pain management. And since you caused all this mess, I figure you can buy some extra Clorox after I deliver your child,"

"There's a system- John, don't just go knocking things around!" Sherlock cried after him. John retorted by slamming the door in his face.

Mycroft appeared behind Sherlock, carrying Charlotte much like a three year old child carries a puppy. "Are you going to stand outside this entire time then, staring at the door like a sad, forgotten pet?"

"It's not my child, there's no reason I be in the room,"

"Oh brother dear," Mycroft tilted his head. "We both know that that's not true,"

"Excuse me!" Mary parted the brothers and went for the door knob. "Sherlock, the kettles on. When the whistle goes off, I need you to pour it into one of your pots and bring it back here,"

"Why me?" he asked.

"Don't be a twat," Mary disappeared into the bedroom and shuffled back to the master bath, where Molly stood bent at the waist, holding onto the counter.

"Fucking bloody bastard shite mother fucker son of a whore-"

"Good, let it out there, love," Mary rubbed her back as John turned the tap off. "Right, Molly: I need you to take off your underwear and climb into the bath. You can keep your nightie on if you don't mind it getting all bloody."

Molly obliged, kicking off a pair of cotton knickers and shuffling over to the tub. Mary nodded at John, who moved out of the way and went to the bathroom sink.

Mary kicked off her khakis and sandals and sat on the edge of the tub, looking down at Molly.

"Molly, I need you to listen to me. We don't know how long this labor is going to last but I need you to tell me when you begin to feel your contractions."

"You've done this before?" Molly asked, gritting her teeth.

Mary nodded. "Before I worked with John I was a midwife up North. Delivered hundreds of babies, love. Don't worry," she patted Molly's knee. "Now, I need you to open your legs so I can see how much you've dilated."

Almost on cue, Sherlock came into the room, holding a pot of boiling water. He looked down at the scene, and then back at John.

"Where'd you put the plants that were in the tub?"

"I dunno," John said as he rummaged through the medicine cabinet.

"'I dunno?' John, those plants were vital-"

"Can you stop talking about your bloody experiments for one second and give John the goddamn water?!" Molly spat.

Sherlock turned back to her and rolled his eyes.

"Please, Molly, stop putting on a show. You're not the first woman to have a baby in a war zone-"

"Oh my fucking GOD," Molly barked. "You think I wanted to be delivering a child in a bathtub as your psychopath arch nemesis tries to overthrow the government a wall away from where I'm going to be pushing something the size of a watermelon out of my vagina? It's your fault my cat's dead, your fault I had to move out of my flat, and it's your fault that instead of falling into an epidural haze on 1,000 thread count sheets, I'm going to be pushing OUR CHILD into the world IN AN IKEA BATH TUB. So PLEASE. DON'T. TELL. ME. HOW TO ACT." With that last sentence a contraction rippled through her again, and she slammed her hand down on the side of the tub.

"I like labor Molly," Mary smiled at the boys. "She's feisty."

"She's going to need more towels," John said, pulling one hand towel from the top of the cabinet. "Honestly, how do you dry off?"

"Don't answer that. Go put another kettle on and try to find some towels in Molly's room," Mary pulled her hand out from between Molly's legs. "You're about 6 centimeters."

Molly groaned in response.

Sherlock scoffed and went back through the door. As he turned to go to the kitchen, he wished he had been able to get a word out in the chaos. Whether Molly realized it or not, he did feel bad about everything. And whether or not he could admit it to himself, he could feel the creeping desire to be involved in the child's -

Violet's

-life. Violet. Violet Iris. He mouthed the name to himself as he turned into the kitchen. While h had despised couples who had always assured themselves that their child's name was perfect, he was absolutely convinced that Violet Iris Hooper Holmes was the most phonetically beautiful sound he had ever heard. The way is rolled off the tongue and went through loops like it was a cart on a roller coaster. In the nights when he couldn't sleep, he caught himself imagining what she would look like, with her mother's eyes and his hair. Or maybe with his eyes, his hair. Maybe a spitting image of Molly. He imagined her crawling around 221 B, grasping at things with a genetically imposed curiosity and analyzing them with the look in her eye that her mother got when she was staring into a microscope. He imagined her toddling around, reciting the elements in the periodic table like a nursery school song and telling Gandalf all about the bones in her feet. He would never tell anyone how he had caught himself smiling at these thoughts, or how whenever he felt nervous or anxious he would absent mindedly run his fingers across his wallet. As much as he tried blocking these thoughts out they always came back, like moths to the ultra-Violet Hooper Holmes. He wouldn't tell anyone. He couldn't. But as he filled up the kettle and flicked on the stove, he finally admitted it to himself.

He loved his daughter.

With a small smirk on his face, he turned to face Mycroft and tell him about the bathroom war zone.

Only instead of his panicked brother, trying to understand babysitting duty, Jim Moriarty stood at the end of the counter, holding a bright pink 'IT'S A GIRL' Balloon.

"Am I on time?"

**EEP. Well, sorry it took so long, but I'm officially done with finals, and I plan on writing all through break! Sorry to leave with another cliff hanger. I love you guys!**


	11. Chapter 11

In 1939, a mother in California fought off a mountain lion with her bare hands to keep it from attacking her and her child.

In 1975, a Nigerian father dove into the middle of the ocean from a cruise ship after his three year old daughter climbed through the railings and fell.

Throughout the 20th century, there had been multiple cases of mothers seemingly gaining superhuman strength to lift a car off their children.

Sherlock had studied these cases, he highlighted the patterns and tacked the articles to his wall. As a person who never understood romantic love, the love between child and parent was equally, if not more so, confusing to him. What could compel a person to face death without a second thought in order to protect someone they barely knew? In his opinion, the medieval serfs had gotten it right when it came to family planning: produced as many viable workers to help in the fields so that if one succumbed to whatever awful disease was popular at the time, another small body would take the place and finish the work.

This belief had been ingrained in him since he could read a history book, but in this moment, he finally began to understand what was going on in those parents' minds. Face to face with his own monster, he had the overwhelming urge to grab the throwing knives he kept hidden in the hanging plant by his head.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Moriarty said, his voice heavy like sap dropping from a maple tree. He had read his mind.

"What are you doing here?" he fired back severely.

"I'm here to give my congratulations!" he sang out, stretching his arms out like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Not every day your arch nemesis brings forth a new life into the world," his voice dropped into an icy timbre.

"What do you want," he said.

"I wanted to remind you that I'm still here," he let the balloon go. "You should be thanking me, if I hadn't decided to resurface, you'd be nine months dead in some god awful Turkish prison, maggots writhing in your eye sockets," his fingers danced over his eyes, suggesting squirming worms. Sherlock gave no reaction, and Moriarty returned his hands to his pockets.

"I came here to warn you," he said. "I was content with letting exile claim you, but then you had to go and make things interesting. Never a dull moment with you," he wagged his finger at Sherlock, like he was half-heartedly correcting a dog.

"Whatever it is your planning, we both know how it ends," Sherlock said.

"Oh I don't think we do," Moriarty walked up slowly, swaggering into Sherlock's personal space and making deep eye contact. "I wonder, if it came down between saving the country and saving your little family, which would you pick?"

Sherlock's face was stone cold as he peered into Moriarty's black eyes. If ever there was soul in his body, it had long ago corroded and dissolved into an acidic heap. In was then that he heard the kettle going off, along with footsteps.

"Honestly, Sherlock, how do you not hear that? You'd best get in there-" Mary came behind him and clicked off the kettle, before turning and noticing Moriarty.

"You-"

"Hello Mary," Moriarty smiled like he was greeting an old friend.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," Mary seethed.

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps because I have men stationed at the entrance of this building, ready to come in here and obliterate this entire apartment if I don't leave in…" he checked his watch "three minutes,"

Mary ground her teeth. "My daughter…is deaf because of you," she growled.

"And I am terribly sorry about that," Moriarty sighed. Mary clenched the kettle tighter.

"Now, if you both will excuse me," he said, wedging himself in between the two of them. Moments later, he turned around.

"And another thing-"

Before he could speak Mary acted. In one quick moment the kettle's water splashed on Moriarty's face, scalding his skin. The noise that escaped him was inhuman, piercing Sherlock's ears. Moriarty's hands flew to his face, hands like claws.

"You _bitch-"_

"Better go," Mary said. " you've got two minutes by my count, and you'll need to get to a hospital if you don't want complete damage,"

Moriarty huffed, torn between destroying Mary here or getting relief for the seering pain on his face. Ultimately, unable to deal with the pain, he turned to them with a sneer.

"This isn't the end of this!" he cried back at them.

He stumbled against the hallway, dragging his feet as he stumbled down the stairs. Sherlock swung his head towards Mary.

"Before you say anything, I'd like to remind you that you killed a man a year ago,"

"He's dangerous, Mary,"

"Sherlock-"

Before she could continue, a small cry echoed from Sherlock's bedroom.

She was here.

Without skipping a beat the two raced down the hallway, shoes scuffing against the wooden floor. Sherlock caught himself against the frame of the bathroom, steadying himself against the inertia of his body.

It was bloody. Molly was lying in a bathtub slowly draining of bodily fluids. However disgusted she may have been with it was masked by the utter look of joy on her face as she held a small, squirming bundle, swaddled in one of Sherlock's pillowcases. Molly cooed and touched her fore finger to the tip of the infants nose and smiled.

"What the hell happened?" John asked. "What was that scream?"

"Moriarty. He was here."

"Here?" John asked.

"Don't worry, I dealt with him," Mary answered.

"_Dealt _with him?"

"How long ago?" Sherlock asked.

"Pardon?"

"How long," he nodded to the baby.

"Oh," John's face softened. "11:45 am." He turned to look at Molly, who finally looked up at Sherlock and smiled that giddy school girl smile that he hadn't seen since this whole ordeal began.

"Do you want to-?" John started, before Sherlock cut him off by walking over to the tub. Molly beamed up at him, and Sherlock found it hard to look at her. Not because he was disgusted by the bloody mess, he had seen murders more grisly, and not because he was disgusted by her disturbing amount of emotion. He found it hard to look at her the way he found it hard to look at the sun or burning magnesium. She was…bright. In front of her, he felt his shadow cast all the way to the eastern hemisphere.

"Sherlock," she whispered through small little cries. "She's perfect,"

He looked down at his daughter's face. If Molly was the sun, Violet, Violet Iris Hooper-Holmes was a super nova. Before this day Sherlock had believed that all babies more or less looked the same, but now, looking down at his child, he came to the scientific conclusion that this baby was the most beautiful baby he had ever seen.

"Ten fingers, ten toes," John came up behind him. "3 and a half kilograms, weighed on one old fashioned postal scale, which is inexplicably in your bathroom," John put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock Holmes, meet your daughter."

Molly turned back to look at him, smiling her goofy smile. Slowly, he came to sit down on the edge of the tub, and looked at the bundle in her arms.

"Do you want to hold her?" Molly asked.

Sherlock stuttered, caught off guard by her question and quickly made eye contact "What?"

"Do you want to hold her?"

"I-I don't,"

"Come on," she said, extending the baby towards him.

"Molly, I don't-"

It was too late. The baby squirmed near him, rubbing her tiny face against his torso. He stared down at her, so afraid she was going to break, stop breathing, spontaneously combust-

And then her eyes opened.

"Did I mention," John said "she shares her father's mutation?"

"One of them," Mary joked.

"Heterochromia iridium," Sherlock whispered. Violet looked at him, one blue and one brown eye scanning his face. Although it should be impossible, he could have sworn that her eyes narrowed, and her mouth pursed in quiet determination to figure out the man holding her.

"Violet," he breathed.

The baby blinked, and then, as if to show she trusted him, turned into him and closed her eyes, slowly fading off into her first nap.

Outside London was burning, Moriarty was plotting against him, and the biggest case of his life loomed on the horizon like a dark sun. But now, as he sat on the edge of his tub, looking down at his most successful experiment,

nothing else mattered.


End file.
